


The One Who Mattered The Most

by hbur08



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fear, Friendship/Love, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hbur08/pseuds/hbur08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper didn't know how strong she was until being strong was the only choice she had left. </p><p>Vague idea of what might happen to Molly in series 4, with hints of Sherlolly and Molliarty... SPOILERS FOR SERIES 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little graphic but nothing too extreme

Molly Hooper wasn’t going to lie; she was terrified. 

It had been three days since that broadcast, the one signalling the return of yet another man believed to be dead. Three days of continuous terror, her stomach knotting at the single mention of his name spoken at work, on the streets or on the news. She found herself unable to sleep because of the raging migraine in her head, and even when she would sleep and found herself biting awake, sweat glistening on the entirety of her skin and her mouth dry, releasing a strangled scream. The dreams were consistent, either her running from _him_ , or she was trapped in a room with a bomb counting down the last ten seconds before its detonation, or she would be pushed over that of rooftop and thrown to her death. They were graphic, they were violent, and they were so, so unforgettably vivid. 

After the broadcast, panic had ensued. People had been running the streets in order to spread the word, Molly’s colleagues rushing from the building with phones in their hands, voices fearful and fast. Molly had remained frozen, staring in horror at the screen, even though the man who haunted her was no longer there. She’d gone over every possibility of how he would come after her; how he would most likely know that she had outwitted him without even meaning to. She’d gone over her time with him, how sweet he had been, how caring he had acted, only to be demolished by the true evil that had flowed through his veins. And he’d used her, used her to get at the one man Molly had ever truly loved. She had been so _stupid_. 

She remembered Greg Lestrade ringing her almost immediately. She couldn’t tell anyone what he had said; the ringing in her ears had drowned out his voice. The only thing she had been conscious of what him asking her to stay with him or at least have an officer near her flat, for protection and security. She’d refused him. 

_“Why the hell not, Molly? He’s back! And he’ll be angry that he was outdone, and he’ll most likely come after you!”_ He’d bellowed down the phone at her, clearly upset. Molly, standing still and barely breathing, was amazed by the easiness of her reply. 

_“I’ll be alright, Greg. I’m not the same Molly he remembers.”_ Came her reply to the detective, and the astonished laugh on the other end almost made her smile. _“I’ll be fine; I’ll just keep a low profile.”_

_“He knows where you live.”_

_“He enjoys a challenge and he’s merciless, so hiding me away or protecting me will only encourage him. Leave it be, Greg, for all we know this is a hoax. Anyway, I’ve got work to finish off, I’ll ring you later.”_ And before he could reply, Molly had hung up the phone and indeed finished what she had been doing that afternoon, though not without her own panic beginning to boil up in her chest.

So here she was, alone in her little living room, a mug of steaming hot chocolate grasped between her trembling hands. A small, selfish part of her wished Tom was still here. She’d never done well on her own, even though it was the only thing she knew. As a child she had to take care of herself most of the time while her mother forever grieved, losing sight of what it meant to be a mother all together. A ten year old Molly would spend hours in her room studying, learning solitarily while her mother drank herself away downstairs. But, unlike many neglected children, she never focussed well on her own; it only revived a past she wanted to stay buried. Partners were a way of keeping that shadow of Molly away, shielding her away from the loneliness that threatened to eat her away with each passing day. 

When Molly met Sherlock, it had been a chance meeting. She’d just been starting out at St. Barts; an intern following her mentor like a puppy followed its mother. The older woman at the time had been rambling on about an illness that she had to examine and work through with Molly, but the intern had been side-tracked by a man sitting along one of the long, white corridors, seemingly awaiting an appointment. He’d been wearing a black hoodie and jagged jeans, his face ungodly pale and thin, glass-like eyes lost to the world. Molly had stopped dead in her tracks, her mentor walking away while continuing to talk, oblivious to suddenly being abandoned. 

Sherlock Holmes had been young, seven and a half years younger in fact. His hair had been longer, shaggier, almost reaching his shoulders. He lacked the elegance he had today, and instead was slouched, his fingers clawing at the sleeves of his hoodie to the point that it looked painful. His left eye was black, the bruise looking ugly and fresh, and his bottom lip had been cut open. Normally, Molly would have left such a man to his own devices, but she didn’t miss the sadness radiating from him. It was the same sadness that her father had, thick and choking like smoke. It was a sadness she herself had gone through, or rather still went through, and in a way it was like it was just the two of them in the room, two lost souls who looked worlds apart and yet were the same. 

_“What?”_ Sherlock had grunted, glaring at Molly ferociously. Oddly, felt no fear towards him, only pity. 

Knowing what was wrong with him—the stench of him was enough to tell her he’d been doing drugs—Molly had knelt down in front of him and peered up. _“Life can get better than this,”_ she’d told him softly. _“there’s always an alternative.”_ She’d spoken with a wisdom her father had had before her, and for the many years to come they would be the only words of wisdom until the year of 2014. However, it had seemed to be enough, because six months later, Molly found herself seeing a lot more of Mr Holmes, ultimately falling in love with him along the way. 

Molly wished for Sherlock to be here with her now, just as a friend helping her through this ungodly fear. She wanted him to reassure her the way she had with him upon their first meeting. For the first time, it was Molly who needed Sherlock, as well as John, Mrs Hudson, Mary and even Greg, yet she couldn’t bring herself to ring them. She wanted to be strong, to prove herself that she was okay and that she was capable of living alone. She wasn’t, though. Who was she kidding? Whole loneliness and isolation had saved Sherlock for a number of years, it only killed Molly little by little the longer she went alone. 

She knew he was coming for her. Moriarty. Molly knew. She waited in the darkness for him, after days of hearing nothing from her friends. She also knew that he wouldn’t come as himself, but through that of another. And, horridly, she knew who that pawn would be. 

Tom had never been the man she wanted to settle for, not really. He was a rebound. He looked so much like Sherlock in terms of appearance, from his facial features to the way he dressed. He’d seemed perfect, and better yet, he seemed normal. But she would forever be kidding herself at the idea of living a happy life with him. He looked like Sherlock, but he wasn’t Sherlock. The bloody ‘meat dagger’ had been the last straw for her at John’s wedding, because she knew she could do so much better. So, two weeks later, she ended it with him. At the time, she’d cried from guilt, yet now that she thought about it, Tom hadn’t seemed phased. In fact, he’d looked relieved, and had left her without so much as a demand for why she had ended it. 

She should have seen it; the way he watched her like a hawk sometimes, or the way he enjoyed gun fighting shows and films, and even his fascination with Moriarty himself, were signs. Molly had never told him about her involvement with Moriarty, but everything Tom raved about him she would flinch and he never questioned her why. Maybe he even enjoyed her uneasiness. But, most of all, he tried so hard to be simple, a trait Molly never appealed to. He tried so hard to seem normal, so much so that it got suspicious. Yes, she should have known. 

When it hit midnight, Molly listened to the pick of her lock at the front door. She waited calmly, her panic having subsided now to acceptance. She’d had three days to accept what was coming, and even knew how it was going to happen. She sat of her small sofa with her legs crossed, her arms wrapped around her middle while her eyes were trained on the door. She took in the shifting of the shadows in her hall as the door whined open, revealing a very familiar shadow that stretched menacingly against the street light pouring in. The burn in the back of her eyes made her eyes sting with tears, yet she bit down hard on her tongue to haunt such a sign of weakness. 

Tom walked in slowly, dressed entirely in black, his boots making the wooden floor groan against his weight. He didn’t look like the Tom she had intended on spending the rest of her life with. His hair was pushed back, out of his face and making his face look shaper, paler, and nothing like Sherlock. His movements were practiced, a tiger stalking its prey, and his eyes lacked their playful innocence and were instead shadowed by a cold, murderous desire. Molly took a shuddering breath and straightened her back, squaring her shoulders in defiance and finally glared in Tom’s direction. 

“Took your time.” she said lowly. Tom chuckled lowly, and with a gloved hand pulled out a lit mobile phone from his jacket pocket. For a while everything was silent until a distorted voice cackled through the speaker of the phone, making Molly tremble with both fear and anger. 

_“I must say, Molly, I was impressed. I would never have guessed that a simple thing like you could ruin everything I had worked for in a matter of hours. Kudos to you, honey.”_ Moriarty spoke in that childish voice of his, the one so childish that it was mocking. Molly bit down on her bottom lip until she drew blood, her heart hammering with a rage she hadn’t known she possessed until that moment. 

“I’d do it all over again.” she spat towards the phone. “I’d risk it all over again if it meant outwitting you.”

 _“Oh, you did get feisty while I was away, good girl!”_ Moriarty said proudly, and a clapping sound erupted from the phone. _“The Molly from two years ago was so very dull. I’m sure Tom here will have a lot of fun with you now.”_

“Too much of a coward to come yourself and have your way with me?” Molly challenged. “Sounds very dull to me.” 

There was a heavy pause until a bitter sigh sounded, and Moriarty no longer sounded amused. _“I’d threaten you for that, but you and I both know what’s coming for you. You’ve upset me, Molly, you ruined my game. You know what the price you have to pay is.”_

“I do.” She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “Go ahead, I don’t matter anyway.”

 _“Oh, but you do matter. You’re the one that always mattered the most, the girl that always counted.”_ She wanted to cry at the ghost of Sherlock’s words coming out of this monster’s mouth, but she managed to keep herself in check. _“Your death is going to rip Sherlock’s heart out. It will burn the heart out of him. Guilt, you see, is a nasty burden.”_

“I hope he rips you apart.” Molly countered heatedly, and she rose from her position of the sofa, standing on the cushion and poised like a cat, ready to lunge this way or that to avoid a collision. She was ready. She was going to die, but she was ready for the fight that was coming her way. “Sherlock will have no mercy on you. When he finds you, he’ll tear you apart.”

 _“I look forward to it.”_ Moriarty said in that drone of a voice, sounding bored. _“Goodbye, Miss Hooper, it was a pleasure.”_

The phone went silent. 

Tom, not missing a single beat, tossed the phone aside into the darkness. Molly heard the passing of a beat in her chest, listened to the catching of her own breath, and then threw herself over the back of the sofa and out of Tom’s way. 

She was going to fight, and she was going to make sure that every minute she was alive would count. 

***

Sherlock never allowed Moriarty to finish his taunting on the phone. 

He and John were out of the flat the moment Moriarty mentioned ‘the one who mattered the most’, abandoning the phone entirely. Mrs Hudson never had the chance to question the two men’s haste, only time to jump out of their rampage as they flung themselves down the stairs and out of the door. The men didn’t even have time for a cab, so instead sprinted like they never had done before, running blind with panic and desperation to reach their destination. 

Sherlock vaguely remembered shouting directions to go this way and that, John never questioning him. They nearly got hit by a car several times, yet neither could find it in them to care for their own safely. Sherlock had only one name in mind, a name he had hoped he’d never have to run towards. 

_Molly._

Molly had been an obvious target from the start, and until now Sherlock and his companions had been working up a plan to hide Molly away whether she liked it or not; they even considered to send her to Mycroft’s, who was of course begrudging to the idea but certainly not completely against it. They were making final decisions at Baker Streets when the phone rang and Moriarty came cackling through, chanting and singing in riddles, hinting to the imminent death of another. At first Sherlock never believed it to be Molly; it was too soon! But it soon became clear. Moriarty wasn’t messing around anymore, he was getting straight down to business, and Molly was the first on his list.

So here they were, Sherlock and John dashing through the streets and thinking of nothing but where they had to go and what they might be up against. They ran and ran until their lungs burned and their muscled howled in agony, and yet still hey ran until Molly’s flat came into view in the streetlight. 

Sherlock started barking out her name as he fled towards her home, only to stop dead when he realised that her door had already been tampered with, ajar and revealing a horribly dark corridor. “No…”

“Sherlock…?” John demanded breathlessly, halting beside his friend. Then he looked at the door, and his expression fell the way Sherlock’s heart sank to his gut.   
Fearfully, Sherlock pushed open the door with a gloved hand, exposing an empty hallway. He stepped inside, swallowing, his head beginning to pound with unwanted deductions that he pushed aside. To the right, he came to what he recognised as Molly’s living room, small and cosy like his own. Only it wasn’t cosy anymore. 

Dust stirred the air along with cat hair, fresh and alarming. Inside, the little two-seater sofa was on its back, the cushions thrown all over the room. The little flat screen television was smashed on the floor near the window, glass fragments coating the wooden floor like shimmering diamonds. The curtains had been ripped down, the two coffee tables toppled and torn apart. A mug lay discarded near the door, the smell of weak hot chocolate hitting Sherlock in a wave. He edged into the room, John right behind him, and examined everything he saw. 

Molly had fought back. The leg ripped from one of the coffee tables had been used as a weapon; it lay near the window, glistening with blood. She’d thrown a glass against the door; Sherlock found the base of it in the corner among the glass of the TV. One of the cushions had been sliced open, perhaps used as shield by either party during the attack. Blood smeared the wall beside the door that led into the kitchen, smeared and high up on the wall; the attacker’s blood after being slammed against the wall by Molly. The kitchen door was open, the handle bloodied, and Sherlock carefully opened it as bile rose in his throat. 

Inside, more destruction had taken place; broken plates, glasses, knives here and there… and a gun. But Sherlock never analysed the scene, for the gun was in a hand, a pale, tiny hand, delicate and looking complete wrong as the fingers clenched the handle. He couldn’t process it as the scene expanded before him, the hand attaching itself to a slim arm, embedded in a bony, female shoulder with was shielded by that of bloody brown hair. 

No, no, NO! 

_“Molly!”_ John shot forward, shoving Sherlock out of the way in his need to reach the woman on the floor. Weakly, Sherlock looked to the left, and there lay a man he recognised viciously as Molly’s ex-fiancé. He wore nothing but black, lying on his front and away from Molly, angled towards the second door that led back into the main hall and inevitably leading to the front door. Blood, looking black in the dim light, surrounded the middle of his body like leaking ink. Distantly, Sherlock guessed that Molly had shot him in the back. 

Molly herself lay crumbled against the floor cupboards closest to the door, one hand held at her abdomen while the other remained holding the gun. John kept calling her name, leaning over her to murmur in her ear while he inspected her wound. Sherlock could only stand there, stunned, unable to escape the knowledge that this was his fault. If not for him, Molly wouldn’t be here. If not for him, she would still be living an ordinary life. If not for him, she wouldn’t be lying in a pool of her own blood. 

_“SHERLOCK!”_ John screamed, drawing his friend’s attention. The doctor threw a phone in his direction. “Listen to me! She’s alive, and right now she needs an ambulance. _RING THE BLOODY AMBULENCE!”_

Sherlock didn’t remember doing such a thing, but he did. He also hardly registered John ordering him to do this, that and the other; shifting her onto her back and exposing her stomach. Almost fatal wound. Upper left of the abdomen, bullet still in the wound. Molly was gagging; Sherlock moved to cradle her head in his lap. Watching, waiting, as John tried to stop the bleeding, cursing violently beneath his breath. 

_I will burn the heart out of you._

His heart was burning. It was burning because Molly, sweet, caring, innocent Molly, was dying. 

His heart was burning because he had failed her. 

His heart was burning because Molly had needed him more than ever, and he hadn’t been there. 

Molly was dying. 

Molly was fading. 

Molly was dead.

***

Molly felt it, the fire in her chest, the shock of her body. She felt death ripple through her while life tried to fend it off. She felt it, the tug between living and dying, the raging of blood and water. Her heart was not beating, yet the blood was flowing, warm and violating. She was floating, screaming, yet no sound came out of her. 

She looked down and saw the blood, her blood. She watched it pour out of her stomach like a pipe leak, staining the white floor her feet. She saw her reflection in the puddle, and she saw the terror in her face, the tears and the effort it took to scream only to not make a single sound. Molly clutched at the wound in her stomach, the blood thick and wet through her fingers, and she felt as if she was trying to keep her own insides from falling out of her. 

There was another shock in her chest. She was lifted and thrown, crashing into the ground, effectively knocking the breath out of her. She heard the scream of her name somewhere far out, echoing around her. Distantly, she heard the beating of a heart. 

Rising to her knees, she looked at her hand. Blood; it was like gloves on her hands that dripped down her arms to her elbows. She worked up another screaming but yet another shot exploding inside her, throwing her to the right, making her slide helplessly across the floor and leaving a trail of blood in her wake. 

_“Dammit, Molly!”_ hollered that voice, and Molly knew that voice. John Watson. _“You’re not dying on us, not yet!”_

“It hurts!” she cried, not sure if he could even hear her. “It _hurts_ , John!” 

She was thrown to the left this time as yet another burst of life erupting in her chest, and she thought her heart was exploding. Pain was everywhere, scorching her from the inside out, burning and melting her until she almost begged for death. “It hurts, it hurts, _IT HURTS!”_ she shrieked. “Make it _stop!_ ”

 _“Be strong, Molly,”_ came a new voice. _“Be strong in the way I know you are. Come back to us, Molly, you have to come back. Don’t let him win!”_

“Sherlock?” Molly whispered hopefully, struggling to her feet. White, white, white, so much white, nothing else. White floors, white walls, white ceiling. The pathway between life and death. 

Molly spun, hunched over but searching desperately for something to go on. The pain was exploding behind her eyes like red fireworks, tempting her to sleep and forget, trying to blind her and make her give up. She wasn’t giving up, not now!

 _“Over here, Molly.”_ cooed a sweet voice behind her, and when she spun, she saw them. Mary Watson, holding John’s hand, and with them was Sherlock. Then there was Greg, hands in pockets, his head cocked to the side, and beside him stood Mrs Hudson, waving sweetly. All of them were smiling at her, beckoning her to them, waving her over. Grasping her wound, she made her way towards them slowly, reaching for them. Sherlock reached out a hand, calling her name, urging Molly to reach for him and his outstretched fingers. She had to get there. 

Control the pain. 

Forget the shock.

Get home. 

_“Come on, Molly! A little closer!”_ screamed a voice in her head, her own voice. Her fingers were inches from Sherlock’s, John’s hand almost at her shoulder, Mary grabbing for her arm. Molly pulled and pulled, desperate, a mess of tears and blood and pain, yet they seemed miles away from her. 

Closer. _Closer!_

And suddenly she heard it, the slamming of her own heart in the second she reached them, her family. They pulled her in and she fell into their protective circle, falling into the pain while they enveloped her in an embrace. She closed her eyes, listening to the music that was her heart pumping blood around her body. 

Finally, Molly screamed away, inhaling painfully while her back arched with the sudden bite of consciousness. Something was over her face, forcing oxygen into her, and the pain was somehow numbing throughout her body. Lights were bright above her, unfamiliar faces hovering over her. She felt movement, she saw a bag of clear liquid above her, and then she knew. 

Molly wasn’t dead. 

Molly was very much alive. 

She remembered glimpsing Sherlock and John as the gurney she lay on rounded a corner, the men covered in blood and looking helpless as a doctor halted them from going any further. She never got the chance to call out to them; darkness that was morphine was taking her away from the pain again. But she saw them, she knew they were there, waiting for her, and she was sure she felt her heart beat just a little bit stronger in her chest at the knowledge of such things. 

“Sleep, Miss Hooper.” soothed a voice of one of the nurses tending to her in that moment. “Let it go. Don’t fight it.”

She didn’t fight it. She gave way to the drugs in her system and allowed it to take away the pain, because she knew that her fight was over. She was strong enough now. She was safe, and she had endured her own battle to the point she had almost looked death in the face. She no longer had to fight for consciousness, because she had already assured that she was alive and breathing. 

Molly Hooper drifted, floating, and then fell into a pit of bright light that cushioned her. No longer was she covered in blood, but rather clean and in her usual clothes, sleeping in her own bed. She allowed the sound of her own heart to send her drifting to sleep, because that was the only thing she needed to hear. 

The stress of recovery and danger could come later. 

Falling into a white bed of feathery softness, Molly rolled and slept, distantly hearing the sound of her heart, as well as the pleasant symphony of a violin in the most cherished parts of her memories. She needed nothing else to keep her going. 

Molly was the girl who mattered the most, and dammit if Moriarty thought he could kill her off that easily.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly didn’t wake up for a while. 

Instead, she remained trapped in a dream of her past, reliving events both good and bad. Right now she drifted through the mist of her father’s funeral, watching herself as if on the outside looking in. Ten year old Molly was silent beside her mother, dressed in a black dress that fell just below her tight coated knees, her light brown hair pulled up in a bun and accompanied by a black rose. She didn’t cry; she was too busy staring at her mother, who was freely crying as she watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. Molly felt like she should have said something to her mother, but nothing seemed right. Instead, once the coffin was in the ground, she took her mother’s red rose along with her own and threw them in with her father, fighting back the tears that threatened to break her. In that moment, she knew she was going to be alone for a long time—her mother was beyond saving now. 

Present Molly watched as her childhood self walked away and towards her, looking sadder than she had ever felt in her life. That was the day that Molly not only grew up but also lost what it meant to laugh; from that day on she would never go out with friends, she and her mother would distance themselves beyond contact, and Molly would form better relationships with the dead rather than the living. She saw all too clear in the eyes of her ten year old self, brown irises that didn’t sparkle the way they should have. That was the day that Molly died and was born as someone else.

The moment her own ghost passed right through her, Molly’s dream shifted to a much later date. She watched herself, seven years younger, examining a body in the morgue under the watchful eye of her mentor. This was a new mentor and a particularly favourite one of Molly’s; she never began small talk with her. At that time, Molly was terrible in social situations. Having lacked that development throughout her childhood and even into her teens, she found that she couldn’t look anyone in the eye, never mind speak to them in a meaningful conversation. So this mentor, Samantha Hayward, was one of Molly’s better ones. She only watched her and commented whenever she did something right or wrong, and she was kind enough about it. That was just fine with Molly. 

On this particular day, after searching and declaring the cause of death on the body of a forty six year old male, Molly was readying herself for a lunch break when the doors burst open. Present Molly smirked, knowing what was to come, when past Molly looked utterly horrified. Samantha squealed in protest when a man waltzed in, hands stuffed in a medium length black coat with a turned up collar, dark jeans and shoes, and a grin that made old Molly’s skin crawl. 

_“Good afternoon,”_ the man beamed, spinning as he took in his surroundings. _“I’ve been told to come here to have a look at a body? Just came in this morning?”_

_“Sir, you shouldn’t be in here!”_ Samantha yelled, pointing headedly to the door. The Molly from the past began to chew her nails and make her way to the door, not wanting any part in this confrontation. However, the man launched himself to said door and pressed his palm against it, preventing her from opening it. Molly flushed, backing away and looking to Samantha for help. The older woman was also red in the face, positively fuming, pushing her glasses up her nose as if it would make a difference. 

_“I demand that you leave, sir.”_ she snapped viciously. The man only laughed. 

_“You’re boring, no use to me. Find a man called Lestrade, he’s a detective and the one who gave me authorization.”_ He then swung open the door and made a bowing motion, indicating the direction in which Samantha was to take through the door. _“Laters!”_

Livid, Samantha stormed towards the door, calling Molly after her. Molly made way to follow, but the man blocked her exit with his arm once Samantha was out in the hall.   
_“Not you.”_ he told her lowly. Just as Samantha began to loudly protest, the man grinned and said _“It was a pleasure meeting you, bye, bye!”_ and swung the door shut. 

Molly stood, trembling, as the man turned to face her. At first she hardly recognised him. His eyes were bright, full of life, nothing like the eyes she had seen before. His hair was cut, though it stull curled around his ears, yet the dark strands were perfected coils on his head. His face was fuller, his cheekbones sharper, and he even smelled fresh like mint. Shrugging out of his coat, he waltz around the room and tossed it to one side before adjusting his jacket over his white shirt. Finally, he glimpsed his reflection in the reflection of the window in the door and ruffled his hair, the mop on his head bouncing and becoming all the more wild. 

_“Let’s get started, shall we?”_ he exclaimed, striding over to Molly with the happiest of grins.

_“You… You’re the man I met six months ago… here in the hospital!”_ Molly said, stunned by her own willingness to speak. 

_“Sherlock Holmes,”_ he told her, holding out his hand. Seconds passed, a quizzical look on his face, because Molly took his hand in hers and shook it. _“Lestrade told me that handshaking is polite; I get the impression it’s not your favourite way of greeting.”_

On cue, her palm began to sweat, and Molly pulled her hand free to whip it clean on her thigh. Sherlock watched her curiously, head cocked, his eyes raking her up and down more than once. 

_“M-Molly Hoop-per.”_ Molly stuttered. Sherlock didn’t even blink; he grinned and clapped his hands. 

_“Excellent. Now, where’s this body?”_

Yet again Molly hesitated, looking towards the door and wondering if she could still escape. Sherlock noticed and his expression hardened, his tone turning series. _“Single child, difficulty communicating, you possibly suffered the loss of a parent as a child while the other was never there for you. You take comfort in working with the dead, hence why you work here as a pathologist; the dead don’t speak, which works perfectly for you. You’re a cat person, and at the moment you have two cats. You lack confidence in your appearance; very little jewellery, hair in a simple ponytail, no makeup and plain clothes—you don’t want people to notice you.”_

Molly’s mouth fell open. _“How did you—?"_

Sherlock waved her off with a smile. _“Bottom line is that you are my ideal kind of company; I hate people, too. In fact, I hate talking to people. So, how about we get down to business, no small talk?”_

Molly didn’t need any more motivation and reeled out the body Sherlock was speaking of. 

Present Molly grinned at her own ghost, praising her for making the best decision she had ever made. Also, now that she thought about it, she came to a realisation; Sherlock had noticed her the way she had noticed him. He had seen Molly for who she really was and claimed her as his own to work with, branding her as one of his favoured helpers. He saw her because they were one of the same; afraid of society and the judgement that came with it, but lonely all the same. 

She felt herself pulling back from the scene as her past burred together, and Molly was suddenly floating into a dark pit to which was feared she would drown. Crashing into black water, she struggled to keep her head above the surface, and the calm that she had been feeling was now replaced by that of panic. Thrashing wildly, something grabbed her ankle and pulled her forcefully down. Her lungs filled, but not with water. No, ink. Black, thick, poisonous ink, trickling down her throat and into her lungs, filling her, choking her, killing her. She felt it in her blood, in her veins, in her brain, and she couldn’t even work up a scream. 

“Ding dong bell, ding dong bell, Pussy’s in the well,” sang a childlike voice, a voice that made Molly want to scream in terror. _“Who put her in? Little Johnny Flynn, Who pulled her out, Nobody would ever do that!”_ Molly felt herself sinking further, the ink exploding behind her eyes with a vicious pain. She opened her mouth to cry out and choked, all the while the singing continued. _“Drowning was the pussycat, Who ne’er did any harm, But killed all the mice in the Farmer’s barn!”_

Suddenly, the ink cleared to water and washed out all of the ink inside her. She floated, dreamy, floating between the good and bad. For a moment she kept her eyes closed, but something brushed her face, gentle through the coldness of the water. She opened her eyes; and howled in terror. 

Moriarty floated in front of her, grinning, his face twisted with madness and fondness all at the same time. She tried to thrash away from him but he grabbed her wrist, his grip firm and painful. Suddenly, through the water, he began to speak. _“Can’t stay here…”_ he said, his voice not his own, but someone else’s. He sounded far, far away. _“She can’t stay here… danger… get her somewhere safe…”_

And then Molly was rising through the water, Moriarty’s hold on her vanishing. She crashed above the surface and gasped, the water clearing from her wide eyes and revealing a new clarity in her vision. A voice called to her, murmuring in her ear yet sounding light-years away. She closed her eyes again and reached for that voice, feeling herself rising, getting stronger, breathing and living, and finally she heard the beeping a of a monitor recording the beating of her heart.

When she opened her eyes, she was lying in a bed. Her vision was blurry, lights fuzzy above her and hurting her eyes. Blinking, she felt something uncomfortable in her nose and instinctively reached to detach it, only for a hand reaching out and stopping her from her left. She gasped, momentarily afraid, but John Watson’s voice quickly fought off the panic that bubbled in her chest. 

“Welcome back to the living, Molly.” said the doctor, and Molly began to cry. 

***

Mycroft Holmes was an intimidating man. Molly didn’t know whether she liked him or not. Dressed strictly in a suit and an umbrella held over his lap, he gazed at Molly from the seat beside her bed with a look all too similar to Sherlock’s. She hated the way he leered at her, clearly judging her, the opposite to the way Sherlock looked at her. She could tell he was marking her as plain and unimportant, that he thought she was a waste of his time, and she couldn’t help but glare ferociously at him while he went about natural deduction. 

“I’m afraid, Miss Hooper, that you won’t be able to stay here.” he said after about five minutes of silent staring, unfazed by how her angry stare pierced him. Not ten minutes after waking up Mycroft had shooed John out, slamming the door shut in his wake before ambushing Molly’s very delicate state. He asked nothing about her wellbeing, or told her how long she’d been unconscious for, or even if she wanted anything to drink. She decided that, though she’d only just met him, that he was far worse than Sherlock ever had been in terms of human communication. 

“Not your favourite idea, though?” she countered. Her voice was rough with exhaustion and the pain creeping back into her system due to the dose of morphine being lowered. 

“My brother and John Watson have made their opinions clear, and even the doctor’s wife is at my throat. I don’t really have a choice.” Mycroft rolled his eyes to the ceiling, clearly unimpressed, and it only angered Molly more.

“Why are _you_ telling me this?”

“I have a proposition to make. I suggest you move away, move to the countryside and out of danger. Sherlock and his friends are incredibly fond of you, and you did save Sherlock’s life three years ago, so I suppose you are worthy of protecting. I will provide you with money to live on, a place to go, I can even find you a job—”

“No.” 

“Excuse me?”

“I said _no._ ” The heart monitor began to beep faster and louder as Molly’s anger rose, causing Mycroft to raise a delicate brow in question. 

“I would have thought that this was an ideal offer for you; you were shot in your own home, if you recall.”

_“Of course I bloody recall.”_ Molly seethed. Painfully, she pushed herself up so that her back rested against the pillows, and she almost cried out with the pain that shot through her body like a bolt of lightning, shocking her right down to her toes. She bit back the tears and glowered at the older Holmes brother beside her bed. “I also recall that I shot that bastard down. I recall fighting in my own home, protecting the life I’ve built here, and I swear to God you will never send me running, Mycroft Holmes, not you, not the Government, not even your brother.” 

To her astonishment, a look of respect and understanding crossed Mycroft’s expression, and he expressed the slightest of smiles. “Very well, I will have to discuss what to do with you instead, then. I suspect that for the time being you will want to speak to some friendly faces.”

The moment he stood and left the private room she was kept in, Molly’s heart slowed again and she sank into the pillows. Sweat formed on her brow, her wound shooting bullets of pain throughout her body, pulsing as if the blood ached to leak through the stitches. Closing her eyes, she listened to the closing of her door, and counted to three. There was muttering outside, the raising of a voice or two, and then the door swung back open to reveal John storming in, Sherlock not far behind. 

“Molly, you need to lie down!” John scolded, and Molly smiled. 

“It doesn’t hurt too much.” she told him, but then quickly turned serious. Sherlock was now in the doorway, looking mutely angry as he stared down at his feet, but John was too busy helping her to lie back down and readjust her pillows to seem angry. With a shaky breath, tears brimming in her eyes, she locked her eyes onto Sherlock’s. “Don’t send me away.” she croaked quietly. “Please, don’t send me away. I can’t live on my own, not again.”

“Who said anything about sending you away?” John inquired, frowning at her. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock answered before Molly could. “Very inconsiderate of him, and I apologize on his behalf for that.” Walking fully into the room, he came to stand on the other side of the bed, opposite his best friend. “Molly Hooper, you’re not going anywhere if I have anything to say about it.” 

She sighed with relief, and suddenly John was handing her a cup of water that she’d missed seeing him carry in. Helping her drink, John tipped the water down Molly’s throat and she relished in its coolness, refreshing her parched mouth and cooling the fiery pain throughout her body. Sighing gratefully she thanked the doctor, who smiled and then dismissed himself from the room in order to call in with his wife.

“But,” Sherlock said as the door slipped closed, “you won’t be able to stay in this hospital. Too obvious. They suggested putting an officer outside your door but—” 

“Moriarty would never let an officer get in his way.” Molly finished for him tiredly. 

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded, and he finally took a seat in the second chair by Molly’s bed. For a while he was quiet, deep in thought, and all Molly could do was watch him helplessly, seeing that sadness in his eyes and still not being able to offer some kind of comfort. Finally, he murmured, “You died three times.”

“What?”

“You died _three_ times. First when we found you, then in the ambulance, and then in surgery.” He looked up at her, and tears pricked his eyes. The sight of it broke her heart. “And it’s because of me. It’s because of me that your heart stopped beating, because of me that you’ve been unconscious for two days, because of me that you are a number one target in all of this mess.”

“I chose to.” she whispered. “I chose to help you, and nothing will ever make me regret making that decision. 

“Forgive me,” Sherlock croaked. “Forgive me for not being there when you needed me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Sherlock.” Molly whispered. “I didn’t call you. I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t your fight.”

“Of course it was my fight!”

“No,” she shook her head, “it wasn’t. He sent Tom to my home, spoke to me through the phone, and had Tom shoot me. It wasn’t your fight at all; I waited for it to happen, and I took control.”

Sherlock gave a breathy chuckle, lowering his head into his hands. He was shaking slightly, the stress in his shoulders adamant, and the loathing towards Moriarty in that moment overwhelmed her to the point that she wanted to scream. He was doing this to him. Moriarty was making Sherlock suffer through the people Sherlock loved, and it was the worst of punishments to put anyone through. Sherlock was breaking, just like she had broken so many times before meeting him. 

“Is he dead?” Molly asked quietly.

“Who?”

“Tom.” The name tasted like acid on her tongue and made her shudder. Sherlock’s head snapped up and suddenly he grinned maliciously, his eyes sparkling with pride and satisfaction, but the anger was also there. She certainly didn’t miss the shudder that ran through him like an electric shock. 

“Yes, he is.” He reached for her hand and squeezed. “Good shot.”

“Not bad for someone who was dying at the time.” she said, smiling, which quickly vanished from her mouth. “I knew it would be him. He had always seemed so perfect, and he popped up out of nowhere. I should have known sooner what he really was.” 

“He’s not worth pondering about; he had us all fooled. I’m just proud of you for figuring out the truth in time for what had to be done. Had you not known, you probably wouldn’t be here now.” Not seeming to think about it, he leaned over her and pressed his cool lips to her forehead. “I’ll be back. I came as soon as I heard you were awake, but I need to get back to Baker Street.”

“Go,” she urged softly. “I’m hardly going anywhere.” 

She watched as Sherlock rose to his feet and slowly left the room, shutting the door behind him. Shortly afterwards, John came back in with a nurse, explaining that her morphine dosage would be notched up again, and that she was going to have some anaesthetic in order to help her sleep better. She couldn’t have protested even if she wanted to; the pain was becoming too great, and frankly, she was exhausted. 

“Don’t leave.” she whispered as she felt the anaesthetic rush though her veins, numbing her throughout her body and darkening her world as her eyes drooped heavily closed. John hushed her and took her hand in his, squeezing comfortingly. 

“Of course not.” he promised her, and then the lights went out. 

***

At first, she wanted to scream. 

The next time she came to, she thought someone was attacking her. A hand was over her mouth, gloved and smelling of leather, and she felt another hand over her body, detaching the wires embedded inside her, disconnecting the morphine lead, the heart monitor and whatever else was attached to her. The monitor didn’t have time to flat-line before it was turned off entirely, knocking her world into a deafening silence. The blankets were ripped away from her, but she couldn’t even shiver. The anaesthetic was still thick in her system and she couldn’t focus on what was actually happening, let alone think about the logical ways in which she should be responding. 

“Time to go.” A low voice whispered in her ear, and suddenly the fear partially disappeared. An arm slipped behind her shoulders and under her knees, and suddenly she was lifted from the bed. Pain shot through her body yet it wasn’t as severe as before, and she distantly hoped that the morphine had another few hours left before it drained out of her. 

Feeling heavy and not entirely secure in her own body, Molly’s head fell heavily against her carrier’s chest, her eyes falling closed and a small moan of pain escaped her lips. Like in her dreams, she felt as if she were floating on the black face of a poisoned sea, agony and death just a mere pull below the surface. She looked down, not seeing a floor but a reflection, a memory like before. 

This time, though, she was looking down on something that had happened very, very recently; Tom lunging for her over the sofa, yanking a gun from his waistband. Past Molly yelled out when he grabbed her elbow and twisted, only for her to ram her free elbow into his face. He topped, falling into the TV and breaking it in the process. Tom launched himself at her again, knocking aside one coffee table while Molly attacked another, yanking free one of its legs. She swung, catching Tom in the head and accidentally making him fire the gun. The bullet missed her she ran for the kitchen door, Tom rushing her. Past Molly ploughed her shoulder into him and slammed him into the wall, ultimately staining the wallpaper with his blood. Proceeding into the kitchen, Past Molly grabbed hold of anything she could see, throwing them at the man she had once believed she’d loved. Tom dodged them all and dropped, aiming the gun just as Past Molly reached into the draw of knives.

Tom had pulled the trigger in that moment, and Past Molly had dropped, yelling out a strangled cry. Tom, panting, dropped the gun and stumbled from the room, shaking and clearly in pain. Past molly, hands streaked in her own blood, her vision impaired with white agony, reached desperately for the gun, aimed shakily, and fired.   
Molly would hear that gunshot for the rest of her life. 

She felt something wet drip on her face, and Molly’s eyes opened to the night sky. Rain fell down on her in a rich cascade, washing away the bloodshed and pain, freeing her of a heavy burden. The person carrying her was panting, sounding stressed what sounded like a car screeched nearby. Then they looked down, and Molly found herself gazing into Sherlock’s eyes, tired and afraid, desperate to accomplish what he had set out to do. 

“Is she alright?” someone called—but who? Molly searched for a name to match the voice, and quickly realised it was Mary’s. 

“Your house. Now.”

“Sherlock, she needs to stay in hospital—!”

“John has things ready for her, just get us there.”

“But—”

“Mary, please! Leaving her in there will only bring her closer to her funeral!”

Finally, the rain stopped, and Molly was out of consciousness once more, dreaming of black waters stained with blood, accompanied by the sound of a gunshot.


	3. Chapter 3

Mary gently stroked Molly’s hair away from her face. The younger girl’s skin was pale and cold, frighteningly cold, and damp with sweat. She shouldn’t have been here in her home, at least not now, in the middle of the night when everything was so hectic. Yet Mary found the girl endearing, a strange essence of strength even in this extremely tender state Molly was now in; wounded, drugged, not completely conscious of the living yet only touching death with the tips of her fingers. Mary could see the hectic flutter behind Molly’s lids, heard the trembling in her uneven breathing, felt the shudders that ran through her body every now and then. Mary kept thinking, she should be dead, this girl should have died several times over, and yet here she was, still fighting, still breathing, still living. 

“How’s she doing?” John asked, walking through the door and into their small spare bedroom. 

“Sleeping,” Mary murmured, and then twisted to face John, yet keeping her palm on Molly’s forehead. “She shouldn’t be here, John.”

John stared at Molly’s face for a moment before sighing heavily. 

“I know it’s not practical but there’s nowhere else to take her—”

“No,” Mary shook her head. “I don’t mind that you brought her here, hell, I would much rather have a shot girl staying with us than that bloody Billy friend of Sherlock’s on a high, but she’s too ill. Frankly, I don’t think she should be alive right now; she needs a hospital.” Unconsciously, Mary laid her free hand on her swelled stomach, the baby inside her wriggling and sending a fluttering sensation throughout Mary’s stomach. It felt like an extreme case of the butterflies, as if she were a teenage girl head over heels for that boy who barely noticed her yet was perfect in every way. It was cruel really; while Mary had a new life growing inside her, another life was on the brink of ending. 

“Molly’s stronger than most,” John assured Mary. Mary smiled and struggled to her feet, John helping her as she did. He held her for a moment, sighing into her shoulder, before murmuring, “If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be in Sherlock’s life at all.” He pulled away from her and kissed her forehead, and then crouched in order to kiss Mary’s stomach. “I have to go, Sherlock’s waiting.”

“What if something happens here?” Mary asked a little frightfully. She wasn’t worried for herself, only the baby and Molly, and the idea of something happening without John or Sherlock present made her heart flip with nerves. John only smiled. 

“You may be pregnant, but you can still get a good shot.” he told her and then pressed his mouth firmly on hers. Mary kissed him back softly, tenderly, not a kiss of passion but one of gentle love and trust. She loved John more than anything else in the world along with the baby, and she would love him for the rest of her life. She didn’t deserve him, hell, she didn’t deserve any of these people who had jumped into her life, so she would never stop being grateful. John and everyone he had around him were her dysfunctional family, and for them to love and accept her was more than Mary would ever deserve. 

When John left, Mary took her seat beside the bed again and leaned down to whisper in Molly’s ear. “Get better soon, alright honey? You mean more to us than you know, even Sherlock. So make sure you wake up soon; if you do I’ll make you a hot cup of tea, okay?” Tears pricked at Mary’s eyes, and she grasped Molly’s limp hand tightly in her own. 

***

Breaking through the red fog of numbed pain, fuzzy confusion and heavy exhaustion, Molly tore through that of unconsciousness and into another world of darkness. Her back was on something soft, her skin wet with sweat as the clothes she wore clung to her in the most uncomfortable fashion. The pounding of her head, twisting of her stomach and the ache of her entire body told her that she was certainly not healthy, but was indeed not dying. Weakly she pushed back the covers that had her cocooned in her own body heat, shouting out when the bolt of white agony exploded from her upper abdomen. Instinctively she clutched at it, only to bring out another scream from her hoarse throat.

A door burst open to her right. _“Molly?”_

It was Mary, flicking on the lights in the dark room. Molly looked around frantically, panic hitting every nerve. Instead of the white walls, plain blankets and the steady beeping from her heart monitor, Molly found herself in an unfamiliar bed, the covers that of a city scape, and the walls were covered in photos of people she both knew and saw as strangers; directly in front of her on the wall was a framed photo of John, Mary and Sherlock, the married couple beaming while Sherlock looked most unamused. In any other circumstance, Molly would have laughed. Not now.

“Where am I?” she demanded painfully.

Mary Watson urged the pathologist to lie back down and hushed her protests, gently brushing Molly’s wet hair from her face. “Everything’s alright, Molly, you just need rest—”

Molly had always promised herself that she wouldn’t be rude to a heavily pregnant woman, no matter what the situation. However, through the horror and confusion, Molly had lost all sense of rationality and modesty. “I don’t care about rest, why the _hell_ aren’t I in a hospital?!” 

If there was any hurt in Mary, Molly didn’t see it. The slightly older woman pulled back and cleared her throat, brushing a hand through her short blonde hair while the other massaged the bulge in her stomach. “Sherlock was convinced that leaving you in the hospital for too long was a dangerous move. Last night he went to go and check on you, and saw someone snooping around. He was having none of it; he broke into your room, carried you out and had me pick the both of you up. You were so out of it that I thought you were dead; you’ve been out cold ever since.”

“Where is he? Where’s Sherlock?” 

“Doing what he does best with John.” Mary waved off whatever question Molly was about to throw at her and sat on the edge of the bed, though not exactly with grace. “Molly, you have to rest. I don’t want you here, either; you belong in a bloody hospital right now. But Sherlock isn’t taking any chances, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

Not seeing another choice, Molly sank back into the pillows. She felt filthy; her skin was in need of a clean and her hair was utterly dire. She wanted nothing more than to sink under the water of a hot bath, just to have the liquid trickle down her back, the steam burning away all the hurt. She wanted not only to clean away the filth of her misfortune, but also the horrid memories and emotions it had brought with it. She wanted to wash away the blood she’d spilled, Tom’s blood. She remembered how her hands had been gloved in it, her own and Tom’s, and even though they were clean now she still saw it. It made her feel violated, and suddenly she felt that she couldn’t rest without a desperate wash. 

“Shower.” she said thickly. Mary, who had been talking about God knows what, went silent in surprise.

“I’m sorry?”

“I need a shower, do you have one?” Molly looked up expectantly, and Mary blinked several times before a breathy laugh fell from her lips. 

“After everything you’ve been through, you want a shower?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” 

After further surprised comments and repeated requests, Mary carefully helped Molly out of the bed. Molly fell against the other woman and growled through her teeth, the pain shooting through her like wild fire. She saw red spots behind her eyes as Mary led her from the room and through down the stairs, each step care and calculated. It took everything Molly had not to scream or cry, instead focussing on the gentle encouragement in Mary’s voice. Finally they reached the kitchen, and Molly made a questioning sound. 

“Arms up.” Mary ordered. And, no longer in the frame of mind to even care, Molly did as she was told. Carefully she raised her arms, wincing slightly, and Mary reached for the hem of her hospital gown and raised it up, dismissively tossing it to the side. Luckily, Molly was wearing underwear, or at least partially; her chest was bandaged in several layers. Mary didn’t even blink. She reached for the counter nearest to her and grabbed the box of cling film, yanking out the entire roll. Hastily, Mary began to circle Molly while wrapping the cling film around her middle, covering the bandaged wound several times securely. Once she was protected in at least ten layers, Mary rushed to a draw and pulled out some sellotape, sticking the line of cling film in place. 

“This way,” Mary murmured, guiding Molly carefully from the kitchen, into a small hall and towards the bathroom. “Would you like me to help you?”

“No, thank you.” Molly murmured. Mary nodded, stepped inside and readied the shower for her, only to leave a second later. She assured Molly that she would be on the other side of the door if she needed her at any point, and Molly only smiled a gentle smile of appreciation. She stepped inside, softly closed the door, and finally let the tears fall.

Molly Hooper was a mess. In the mirror she saw herself as a broken young woman, bruised and cut and horribly ill. She wasn’t the bubbly woman of a week ago, but instead a victim. A victim and a killer. This woman in the reflection had killed a man, a man who was walking away from her after pulling the trigger on her. She’d shot him, and technically not in self-defence; the act of violence had already been inflicted. Yet, in her dying moments, she’d had a murderous vengeance and shot him in the back, not thinking twice. She had wanted his blood on the ground, staining the tiles, marking his death on her own kitchen floor. She’d _wanted_ it. Now she was that of three personalities; the shy Molly, the confident Molly, and now the murderous Molly. 

Silent tears falling down her cheeks, she slowly and shakily unwound the bandages shielding her chest and dropped them to the floor. She wanted to hug herself just to keep from breaking there and then. Two men in her life had touched her body, both of which had used her and wanted her dead. Their fingers had traced every shape, every scar, and every tone. She’d had their mouths on hers, on her shoulders, her chests, her stomach. They’d touched her intimately and lovingly, cared for her, whispered beautiful worlds against her flesh. Now, one of those was still alive and hunting her while the other she had shot in cold blood. They had done this to her. No. Moriarty had done this to her; Tom had been nothing but a pawn. It was all Moriarty, _all of it._

Climbing into the shower, Molly tried her best to wash herself raw. The hot water hurt her skin yet it was a relief, a new pain that was washing away all the bad. She could practically see the filth draining away. She tended to all the bruised, the cuts and the aches, taking her time, sinking until she sat in the tub with the water cascading down on her. Her wound throbbed through the bandage and cling film, yet she couldn’t find it in her to care anymore. She just kept rubbing away the dirt, pain and blood until her body glowed red.

Eventually, she stopped scrubbing and instead sat in the tub silently, staring into space. She kept seeing flashes of her own attack right before her eyes, heard her own screams and the crashes as she tried to stall Tom’s advance of her. She remembered the smell of gunpowder, followed by the sensation of numbness only to be followed by the warmth of her own blood pooling out of her. She remembered the fury and mercilessness in Tom’s face, like he didn’t see her as Molly Hooper but simply a target. She’d seen Sherlock in him, too, and that terrified her even more. 

The door opened slowly while she was trapped in her horrific trance, and Mary crept in with a look of worry. Then she dropped Molly’s name in a voice filled with pity, grabbing a towel from a shelf near the door and hurrying towards the tub. Mary awkwardly helped the girl out, trying desperately not to hurt her, and wrapped her safely in the towel. For a while she stood there, trying to pull Molly out of her own vision, but she was hardly in the land of the living or the dead. She wasn’t anywhere anymore. She was no longer the pathologist diagnosing the death of a victim, but was instead the victim touched by a madman who was out for her blood. 

Whatever innocence Molly had had left before all of this even started was gone. No girl was ever the same once they were touched by a killer.

***

Sherlock arrived later that evening with John shadowing him. Molly was dosing on the sofa of the Watson’s living room, staring at the TV but not really watching it. She was now dressed in a dressing gown Mary had kindly lent to her, and a cup of steaming tea sat on the coffee table just an arm’s length away from Molly’s grasp. She felt drowsy, but she guessed that would have been the morphine Mary had given her kicking in. Molly thought that if she slept anymore then she wouldn’t wake up.

“Why is she out of bed?” John demanded off his wife. 

“She insisted. She’s had a shower, too, and a sandwich.” Mary said sweetly, kissing her husband on the cheek and pinching Sherlock’s nose. Mary had promised not to tell the men of Molly’s momentary trance of fear, and instead kept the idea of Molly being strong firmly alive. Molly just wanted to forget. She couldn’t stay in bed, and yet she couldn’t really do anything, so Mary offered the distraction of food, tea and TV, and oddly enough it was working.  
Or it was the morphine.

“Molly?” It was Sherlock beckoning her name, and she blinked. He was kneeling in front of her looking up, his expression painfully gentle. 

“Hey,” she murmured softly with a tiny smile. “You shouldn’t have taken me from the hospital.”

“Hospitals are dull, I thought you’d like somewhere of better scenery; John’s house was the next best thing to 221B.” Sherlock winked, but it wasn’t like the winks he usually did. It was forced, expressed for her own benefit, yet Molly appreciated the sentiment all the same. She made a gentle sound to accompany her smile and closed her eyes, sighing heavily. Sherlock rose, speaking quietly to the others so that Molly couldn’t hear him. She wasn’t trying to listen. 

When Molly went into yet another slumber, she was falling down a hole. She crashed through the floor, glass shattering around her, and still she continued to fall. Laughter surrounded her, sinister and surreal, and soon she began to somersault through the air and tried to scream. Her heart was in her throat, her stomach at her toes, and all she was doing was spinning and spinning and spinning, until finally she saw the ground. Hard, wooden, deadly ground. Yelling out, she closed her eyes tightly and awaited the impact, and impact that never came. 

And then she bit awake to Sherlock hovering over her, pulling the covers to her chin and fluffing the pillows around her head. It looked awkward to him, like he wasn’t at all happy about doing it, but his shock to her sudden wake wiped away any annoyance from his face. He grasped her shoulders to keep her from bolting upright, thus saving her the pain of such actions. Molly looked at him wildly, afraid, for a second glimpsing Tom in his face, and he knew immediately.

His expression turned livid. “I’m not him, Molly.”

“I know.” she whispered heatedly, and then reached to touch his face, just to make sure. Sherlock flinched beneath her palm, amazed, and then Molly sighed and fell back into the pillows again while her hand fell from Sherlock’s face. The man stared at her for a while as her eyes drooped closed, her heavy sigh loud in the silence. 

“I know.” she said again, and shuddered into her first empty dream.

***

Sherlock stared at Molly’s sleeping form for a while, standing over the bed while his hand remained on his cheek. Never had he seen her so vulnerable before, and if Sherlock was an honest man, he was certainly unnerved. His loathing for Moriarty only grew at the fact that it was him who had broken his pathologist, reducing her to this small girl trapped between nightmares and reality. To see the fear in her eyes at looking into his face hurt him, because from now on she would always glimpse a man she had once loved who then tried to murder her in her own home. He thought back to the little girl before he faked his death, how she had screamed at the sight of his face, and Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration. He hoped to God that Molly wouldn’t turn out like that in the long run. 

Molly didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to be hidden away and suffering. She deserved happiness, because all she had experienced in life was hurt and loneliness. He didn’t want Molly to be like himself and self-destruct as she was so much stronger than that, yet Moriarty was relentless. He was going to break Molly until she wouldn’t be able to stand it any longer, and the conclusion to such thoughts only angered Sherlock more. No, Molly wouldn’t fall for his game, she was better than that. She was too brilliant for that.

What hurt Sherlock more was that he knew Molly needed him, but he would never be then man she needed. He would never be that thoughtful, caring, loving friend or lover, he would never comfort her in a way John or Greg would, he wouldn’t even be able to hold her meaningfully. He could force himself, but it would never be in the same way that she wanted it. He loved Molly, but not in the same way as she loved him. Yet her love was something he needed as she was a reminder that even the most hurt people in his life could still care about him no matter how much damaged he had caused them. Sherlock had damaged Molly more than was fixable, and he couldn’t even repay her in the way she would have wanted. 

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to protect her with his life. Molly deserved to live, to love and to move on, and dammit it if Sherlock Holmes wasn’t going to give her that opportunity, even if it killed him… Again.


	4. Chapter 4

A week passed, and Molly was refusing to rest. She hated being put to a disadvantage and refused help from anyone, whether it be helping her in the shower or making her a cup of tea. She felt that she needed to get her strength up in preparation for what was to come—and something was coming—and she also needed the distractions. She couldn’t just lie in bed all day and relive the nightmare of what had happened to her, especially not when she was an official murderer now. Sherlock had promised her that she wasn’t going to court, for he had had words with Lestrade that made him and his department keep their mouths shut. Sherlock was following up on his promise that Molly wasn’t going anywhere is he had anything to say about it. However it didn’t matter; Molly was still a killer, and while her nightmares attacked her every night, she refused to let them control her in the day. 

Molly was pacing the living room of the Watson household when she heard the front door open. John came in carrying bags of groceries, and Mary, who was sitting in the corner of the sofa, struggled to her feet to go and help. 

“I’ll help,” Molly said quickly, and with a wince went over to help John. The man only smiled.

“No, you won’t, I’m perfectly fine.” John told her and gently moved past her towards the kitchen. Molly’s posture slumped in disappointment, while Mary only smiled softly at her. 

“You can’t do heavy lifting, Molls, you wince merely by walking. I have no idea how you’ve managed to pace for an hour without screaming.”

“You think I’m in pain?” Molly inquired. 

“I _know_ you are.” Mary threw back, collapsing back into the sofa. 

“The real pain is not being able to do anything,” Molly scoffed, glaring at the floor. “And waiting, waiting’s worse. I feel like bait luring in the sharks.” Waiting for the inevitable was worse than waiting for the spontaneous. It was torturous being cooped up in a house, borrowing clothes from a woman who was a size too big in tops and too small in bottoms, surrounded by the same people trying to make her do things she was incapable of doing, which was nothing at all. She needed to get out and breathe fresh air, wear the clothes she was as familiar with as she was with her own skin, so smell her own perfume, and, more importantly, to be alone for a while. It was getting tedious having Mary and John constantly watching her like she was a grounded child, and what pained her more was that the only person who would understand was Sherlock, and he hadn’t shown up in a week. 

Molly knew that, if she was in her own home, she would be more prepared. She knew everything about her home, from the different sounds of her floorboards to the sound of a draft through her room when the window was open. She knew every marking, every fibre, every smell. Her home was the one place she had felt safe before the years she’d met Sherlock’s new friends, so she would sure as hell know when something was wrong. Yet, as much as she hated to admit it, she was afraid. Her home is where the ghost of Tom resided as well as Moriarty’s, the good and the bad. Her living room was the home on evenings with hot chocolate and Glee episodes, while her kitchen was the home of flour fights during baking sessions. Her stairs was the home to a stumbling drunk Molly climbing to her room, giggling as she pulled Tom behind her. And her bedroom was the most intimate; blissful nights of endless ecstasy, skin on skin as she cried out her partner’s name, and they hers, and then the bathroom was home to the drowsy morning afters with laughter and moans in the shower. It was all there, the happy memories imbedded into her walls and floors, the air thick with the smell of it. 

Sometimes the good memories were the worst of them all; Sherlock had told her once that only lies have detail, and those memories were thick with carefully planned detail that it made her feel violated. 

And then she thought of the next best thing; the morgue. Most had thought she was weird for her ease with the dead, and they were right too. Yet what they didn’t understand was that the dead were unaware yet peaceful to Molly’s presence. An examination was the one time when Molly could show how much she cared for other people. She would speak to them, whether it be apologising for an incision or a compliment to an item of clothing they wore. The male pathologists always laughed and joked about the people they inspected, and even laughed at Molly for her care. She never bothered though; she liked to think that if ghosts existed, those men would get one hell of a haunting for their lack of respect. 

Molly hoped that, if she died in the next few months, someone would treat her with care and not like a chunk of meat on a slab. 

“How do you know he’ll find you? He thinks you’re dead.” John said as he walked back into the room, slumping into the seat beside his wife. Molly raised a sarcastic brow at him. 

“There will come a day when faking one’s death is going to get old, Dr Watson.” she said, and she didn’t miss the flinch that went through the man, nor the supportive grasp on his hand from Mary. 

Yes, Molly Hooper was dead, at least for the time being. Greg Lestrade announced it at a public conference just days before, announcing that she died during the night due to unexpected internal bleeding. Her face was all over the news, as was photos of her wrecked house and even images of her on the gurney and being loaded into the ambulance truck, Sherlock and John hopping in behind her. She was famous but for all the wrong reasons, and people who she didn’t even know were mourning her. Why? Because it had come out that she was the reason Sherlock had survived, and that her death meant terrible grief for the famous consulting detective. People grieved not for her but for the thing she had done to save their true hero, and the sacrifice she had had to pay. 

Of course, not everything knew the truth; Greg was lying through his teeth and knew exactly where she was, as did the more likely suspects, even Philip Anderson and Sally Donovan who were there to also confirm her death to the press, stating that they had seen and inspected the body, thus working towards tracking down Moriarty. It was all working brilliantly, but Molly knew better. 

“Moriarty isn’t stupid.” she told the couple. “He’ll figure out I’m alive, I know he will. He’ll have spies on you, Sherlock, Greg, even Anderson. You will slip up, and I need to be ready.”

“Ready for what, though?” John said again. “You’re in no state to go on the run, nor are you fit to fight back.”

“Then _help_ me be ready!” she yelled in exasperation. “Teach me how to aim a gun, or teach me how to throw a descent punch! Do _something!_ ” The strain of her anger took its toll, and Molly crumpled to the floor with a cry as her stomach muscles clenched painfully around her wound, making it pulse with pain. John was beside her in a heartbeat, helping her slowly to her feet and easing her into the sofa beside Mary, who helplessly clenched Molly’s shoulder for support. 

“Molly,” John said softly. “the best thing we can do for you is hide you away. If we get a single clue that Moriarty’s zoning in on you, you’ll have left here before he can even blink.”

“And go where?” she snapped. “You promised you wouldn’t send me away!”

John sighed and rubbed her back. “I don’t mean like that. We’ll send you to someone like Greg or Donovan, hell, maybe even Mycroft.”

The idea of sending her to live with Mycroft was both comforting and skin crawling. “Sure, Mycroft will be brilliant company.” she said sarcastically.  
John chuckled. “Oddly enough you get used to it.”

Molly sighed and slumped back into the cushions, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. Oh what she would give to have a deceased patient beneath her fingers, just so she could speak her worries and anger without being judged, pitied or belittled. Sometimes the dead were the only ones who would listen. 

***

Later, when John and Mary had already retired to bed, Molly found herself sitting in the little armchair in the living room, pulled up against the window. With effort and patience, she managed to position herself so that her legs were slung over one arm away from the window, her upper half cushioned but pivoted at the window. Once the throbbing pain had subsided, she was content to sit like that, almost numb to everything around her as she watched the night dwell on a peaceful silence. It was odd. Silence had been something none existant back at home, what with living in the heart of London. There was no sounds of cars or people, no headlights flashing through the windows, and not even the smell of the fumes that went with London life. It was clean, fresh, quiet, and God did she hate it. 

A figure jogged across the road just then, dark and tall but easily recognisable. Molly smiled; she didn’t miss the tickling in her stomach whenever she saw him like three years ago, nor the sudden swelling of her throat as nerves overtook her or the mushing of rational thoughts. She just felt at ease, content, ready for yet another encounter with the consulting detective, or rather, her friend. 

Sherlock slipped into the house quietly, using the spare key John had given him months before. Molly listened as he softly closed the door, a moment of silence as he analysed the house, and then his gentle footsteps as he made his way towards the living room. Molly watched as his silhouette slipped silently through the door, his collar standing up around his face and his hair wilder than ever in the dim light. He stood still for a moment, watching her, his hands behind his back. Molly smiled; never had she seen a man look so adorably awkward. 

“Molly, you should be sleeping.” he stated simply. 

“Too quiet.” she retorted. The man dipped his head and Molly could practically feel his smile, as if he were experiencing a memory she wasn’t aware of.

“Isn’t it hateful?” he inquired, and Molly found herself grinning a little. 

“Extremely, I miss the city.” She sighed and turned back to the window, listening as Sherlock slowly approached her and came to stand in front of her chair, close enough that his long coat brushed against her knees. She could smell the cold on him, as well as his own aroma, and for a moment all she could do was watch him while he gazed peacefully through the window. 

Finally, she said, “Any luck in finding him?”

He stiffened, clearly unhappy, and turned his shadowed face towards her, the streetlights making his face sharper than usual. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Do you really think he believes I’m dead?” she pressed, watching him carefully. If he thought she missed the jump in his jaw, he was wrong. 

“No.” he said after another pause and looked away again. Despite herself, Molly smiled. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, startling the detective.

“I’m sorry?”

“For speaking the truth; you’re the only one who ever does.” she explained, only to giggle at his confused expression. “Everyone keeps telling me ‘Oh Molly, you’re perfectly safe!’ or ‘You don’t need to worry, he thinks you’re dead anyway’. It’s… exhausting. They think I’m so blind sighted, like I don’t have a clue what’s happening just because I’ve been shot.” She paused, capturing his gaze in her own. “But you don’t. You don’t because you know me better than anyone, and you know I can see through anything, so thank you for that.”

“Do you know why that is?” Sherlock asked after a moment. “Why I can see it?”

“Because I can see you just as easily.” she told him. “You see it all because you’ve experienced it yourself.” She laughed softly to herself. “Who’d have thought it? Simple Molly Hooper relating to the great Sherlock Holmes.”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “not simple. _Brilliant._ You, Molly Hooper, are brilliant, you always have been.” He smiled then, his eyes tenderly soft. “It just took me a long time to actually see it.”

She grinned at him. “What’s it like when you feel human?”

He shrugged. “Uncomfortable but bearable.” He sighed heavily then, and like the big child he was, slumped down the wall in front of her, his knees pulled to his chin while he rested his back against the wall. He truly looked exhausted, the circles beneath his eyes like charcoal smudges, his skin dreary, his body lacking its usual grace. He needed sleep, yet he was depriving himself from it. It didn’t take a genius to know who was behind his will to remain awake. 

“When was the last time you slept?” she whispered. 

“I don’t know, a week maybe?” he whispered back, his eyes drooping closed. 

“Why did you come here?” 

“You know why, Molly.” His voice was a drone, taking on the border between being bored and frustrated. 

“I want to hear you say it.” she pressed him, her voice strong, unyielding. 

He sighed in annoyance, eyes still closed. “You, I came to check on you.” 

At that, Molly felt herself deflate with something similar to satisfaction. Slowly, awkwardly, she removed herself from the chair. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to watch her, yet he made no move to help. She didn’t want him to. She was sick of people trying to help her when she didn’t need it, so to just have Sherlock watch her was a relief. His eyes spoke out pride, admiration to her need for recovery, fond of her strength. It was all she needed to help her dropped on the floor beside him, wincing once or twice as she stretched her legs out in front of her. Sherlock smiled when she finally settled down, her eyes closed as she dropped her head back against the wall, a little out of breath with the effort. 

“Thank you.” he whispered, and it was Molly’s turn to be surprised.

“For what?” she asked, blinking. 

“For just being you.” At that she smiled, leaning against him and dropping her head on his shoulder. Normally he would have flinched and shoved away any person who would do that, but he didn’t. Instead he cocked his head, his cheek resting against her head, warm and comfortable. Secure. They were quiet for a long time, both of their eyes closed, Molly simply relishing in the smell of him, his warmth radiating from him, the safeness of his presence. She didn’t need anything else. Molly would forever be happy if Sherlock was in her life, as well as everyone else. If not for them, she wouldn’t be who she was now. If she had remained as the Molly from three years ago, she probably wouldn’t be alive today. But instead she was evolving, just like Sherlock was, just like John was, just like everybody was. 

“Molly?” Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper. 

“Yes?” she breathed back, sleep threatening to take her away. 

“I can never be what you want me to be.” he told her. “I can’t be here for you at all hours of the day. I can’t… _love_ … the way you do.” The way he struggled to get his words out made her heart throb with a strange admiration, and she simply smiled at his efforts. 

“I know, and I’m not asking you to change. I would never do that.” she assured him, and she felt the knots of his muscles loosen at her words. “In fact, I never want you to change. Don’t ever stop being the annoying dick that you are.” 

Sherlock laughed at that and took her hand in his, the contact the most comforting thing he had experienced since before her attack. He squeezed her fingers, and then turned his head on her to pressed his lips against her hair. 

“I may never be the man you need,” he murmured, returning to press his cheek on her hair, his voice vibrating through her. “but I will always be here to protect you. I may have hurt you in the past, and used you, and I cannot express how sorry I am for that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Molly said. “back then I didn’t count.”

“You have always counted, Molly, it just took the right moment to establish it.” He sighed, sounding very tired, his fingers loosening between hers. “You’ll always be the one who matters.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” she murmured, and then listened as his breathing evened out, felt his body stilling entirely, and let his fingers fall free from hers. Sherlock was asleep, once again using Molly as support for his problems. But she didn’t mind. She never minded. She was his friend, and she was there to be his support no matter what. She knew that he would always need her the way she needed him, for that fact sent away the pain, even if it was just for a little while.


	5. Chapter 5

Days turned to weeks. 

Five weeks after the attack, Molly was back on her feet. She was healing, both physically and mentally, and was slowly becoming herself again. John changed her stitches three times, taught her how to exercise safely, and even told her how to tend to her wound during the final stages of its healing. Now she was jogging down the street of the Watson’s home, running back and forth, the cool air of spring fresh on her face. She wore her hair up in a bun, covered with a hat, and she had grown a fringe out in order to help conceal her face just a little bit more. Sunglasses were a necessity when outside, as was a pattern of clothing completely out of her own character; skinny jeans, plain t-shirts with open hoddies more so than anything else. She was living by the lifestyle of someone else, playing the part of a woman by the name of Natalie Preston, a cousin of Mary’s who had come to live with them. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t Molly Hooper, not by a long shot. 

She was running one evening as part of her daily exercise. If she wasn’t running, she was stretching in the Watson’s living room or learning basic self-defence moves in case of an attack. Moves such as attacking the eyes, nose and throat had been taught to her extensively by almost everyone out to protect her, even Mary (how Mary knew such moves was beyond Molly). John had even taught her how something as simple as a key was a good weapon, as it could be used to slash an attacker’s cheek. They were teaching her how to attack and escape, just like she wanted, and the more she knew and perfected, the more comfortable in her skin she felt. 

As she ran closer towards the Watson household, Molly heard the hasty approached of footsteps behind her. Just as a hand grasped her arm, Molly swung herself around and swung her fist towards the attacker’s face, effectively connected her knuckles with a sharp nose. The attacker yelled out and stumbled back, effectively releasing her. Molly blinked, stunned by her own new found reflexes, her fist momentarily numb but throbbing. The man on the ground was none other than Sherlock, who was laughing almost gleefully, despite the blood dribbling down his nose and through his fingers.

“Sherlock!” she cried, alarmed, and instantly went to help him up. He dismissed her and jumped to his feet, sniffling while he grinned. “I am so sorry!”

“Why the hell are you sorry?” he demanded with a bark of laugher. “That was brilliant!” 

“Can I punch you in the face more often?” she asked with a smile, the exhaustion of her running draining her in that moment while the adrenaline wore off. Sherlock looked at her and made a face, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Don’t push your luck, Preston.” The use of her fake name made her shudder, but it was necessary. She was only addressed as Molly when indoors and away from prying ears, yet that didn’t make her fake name any more comforting. Sherlock seemed to notice her discomfort—she could see it in his eyes—but he didn’t comment, and Molly readjusted her beanie hat and looked away, letting her a lock of hair fall to hide her face. Sherlock grasped her elbow and pulled her along, and Molly found herself fighting the urge to take on another of her recently taught moves and hit him a second time. 

Opening the door to his best friend’s home, John came through the hall to greet them. One look at his face made the shorter man grin, turning his gaze to Molly as he pointed to Sherlock’s bloody nose. “You?”

“Yep.” Molly said, feeling a blush creep along her cheeks. Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, followed by Mary’s muffled greeting and the sound of the kettle being clicked on. Mary was closer and closer to her due date, just one week away, and Molly found it wondrous that she was still happy and moving around. Then again, when you had John pestering you day in and day out for rest and asking about needs, it seemed only the natural response to defy him and prove that you were capable of doing everything yourself.  
But sometimes, like now, Molly humoured him; all he wanted was to be the caring husband and friend that he was, and it was cruel to defy him. So Molly allowed him to lead her into the living room and sit her down, letting him check her wound.

“I’ll take the stitches out in a few more weeks.” he told her with a warm smile, his warm fingers carefully prodding the skin around the angry looking bullet wound that was indeed healing. The skin around it was raw, a mix of deep red and purple, but it looked worse than it was. Molly was repeatedly told how lucky she was, and the fact that she was recovering so quickly was a wonder to everyone, even Sherlock. And she felt strong, too. John prodded her here and there along her ribs and around the wound, making her flinch a little but nothing like before when he examined her. She no longer saw red dots of pain behind her eyes nor did she feel the stabbing shot of white fire whenever she moved. Her body was as strong as her mind, though the nightmares still remained. 

She still dreamt of drowning in a black sea, Moriarty cooing songs in her ear as she died with the poison clogging her throat. She would wake up to the sensation of falling, her body thrashing in the bed as Moriarty’s laugh made her snarl viciously into consciousness. She’d wake clutching her throat, struggling to move or breathe, and her nightwear would cling to her sweaty skin in the most uncomfortable fashion. And, with the nightmares, her wound would throb with recognition, registering a pain that was no longer there while the shot of a gun sounded in the back of her mind. And, worse, she wake up in tears and alone in the darkness, the spare room bitterly cold against her scorching skin. And then she would stay awake for the rest of the night, staring into space while her body tried to calm down, stripped down to just her underwear and yet still remaining as hot as a radiator. 

However, where there was a weakness there was strength, and Molly used her nightmares to face her reality with a clear head. Where Moriarty liked to believe in fairy tales, Molly liked to see through the clearness that was reality, and the benefits and consequences it brought with it. 

The doorbell rang, and Molly instinctively stiffened. John, seemingly unfazed, left her without so much as a gesture of comfort to answer it, Mary and Sherlock quickly following him. From the living room Molly listened to muffled hellos and relaxed, sinking back into the cushions. A few moments later, she found herself beaming with surprise. 

“Hello, dear, how are you feeling?”

“Mrs Hudson!” Molly rose to her feet and collected the little woman in her arms, squeezing as tightly as her body allowed. Mrs Hudson giggled and hugged her back, patting her back tenderly. It had been a long time since Molly had seen Sherlock’s landlady, so to see such a friendly, down to earth face brought Molly a wave of fresh relief that it almost overwhelmed her. 

It took Molly a moment to realise that Mrs Hudson had come carrying a bag, a laptop bag at that.

“It is something important?” Sherlock demanded once the two women had parted, strolling in with John and Mary in toe. His nose was no longer bleeding, but he also no longer looked at ease. His tone was clipped, as if he were expecting something from his landlady’s visit, which unnerved Molly greatly.

“Sherlock, I do hope you clean that mess up in the kitchen once you get home, because for the last time I am not your housekeeper.” Was all Mrs Hudson said in response, and in that instant Molly knew. She watched as the elder woman flopped into the sofa, hugging her bag to her chest, and the flash of worry in her eyes was something that made Molly’s stomach lurch. She was stalling, not wanting to share what she had happened across, and Molly no longer felt relieved. The glance between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock only confirmed her worries. 

“What is it?” she asked quietly, distantly wondering if her legs were going to buckle. Another glance was shared, this time between everyone in the room, and Molly felt her blood begin to simmer. “Tell me.” she added in a sharp tone of her own.

A few moments later, Mrs Hudson released and unfolded her laptop and rested it on the coffee table. Molly sat beside her, knees pulled to her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. Sherlock was on Mrs Hudson’s other side, launching into Mrs Hudson’s files as if he had previously been told that something had happened (it wouldn’t surprise her, for Mrs Hudson was amazingly good when it came to texting). He clicked her and there, opening the internet, logging into her emails and pausing when he reached the first new email, titled Molly Hooper.

“Oh no…” Molly breathed. Sherlock clicked into it, downloading an attachment that came with it. There was no text to establish what the file was, but it soon became clear that it was a video. 

John rested on the arm of the sofa beside Molly, his hand squeezing her shoulder, while Mary collapsed into the armchair, her eyes shining with anxiety. Molly’s heart was in her throat, threatening to block her windpipe, her nightmare becoming a reality. Choking, drowning, dying. 

_Focus._

Sherlock opened the video, and after a few moments of buffering, it flickered into motion. In that second, Molly could have vomited. 

Jim Moriarty took up most of the frame, the background dark behind him. His hair was as short as it ever was, his brown eyes forever holding that teasing spark. His trademark smirk was firmly in place, his face as handsome as ever, smartly dressed like a gentleman. And the way he looked into the camera, calm and forever seeing what shouldn’t be seen, it felt like he was looking straight into Molly’s soul. 

“I’m beginning to get tired of your games, Miss Hooper.” he said, his voice that same Irish drone, forever bored, forever needing to have a game to play. The hairs on the back of Molly’s neck stood on end, her skin dropping to ice temperatures, and it suddenly felt like it was just her in the room, her and Moriarty. “I honestly thought you were dead. It surprised me that Tom was dead, but I’m not too bothered; I was confident that he’s taken a good shot on you. You surprised me, and I’m beginning to get _very_ annoyed.”

“You bastard.” John seethed, his fists clenched. Molly found herself glaring at the screen, leaning ever so slightly towards it as if willing to challenge the man within the screen.

“If you’re wondering how I know, then you’re an idiot. Everyone always forgets that I have people on the inside, doing what I want them to do without question. Did you really think I would take your death so easily? I had a search for your body, just to be sure, and guess what? Nothing was found, you _bitch!_ ”

Molly flinched, her nails clawing into her legs until she felt the warmth of her own blood. Her eyes didn’t waver from Moriarty’s face; if they did, she was admitting defeat to fear. 

Moriarty giggled, composing himself. “I’m sorry but it just wasn’t supposed to be so difficult to get rid of you! Molly Hooper, the girl who watched Glee and had better relationships with the dead than the living! It’s a joke!” His face changed then, turning into something more sinister, the grin on his mouth chilling her to the bone. His eyes gazed intently into the camera, directly at her, and it was hard to distinguish whether the video was live or not. “I’m coming for you, Molls. You were right; I was a coward for sending your dear Tom. So this time it’s just me and you, our own little game. How does that sound? Do you still feel brave? _Do you?!_ ” There was a pause, a gap that awaited her answer. 

Molly bit into her lip viciously. “I sure hope so. Being brave is the only thing that will save you now.”

Sherlock cursed below his breath, and John was now pacing the room in a fit of rage. Mary sat quietly, staring blankly at the floor, and Mrs Hudson looked to be on the verge of years. Molly was the only one who seemed to be in any kind of control. 

Moriarty grinned, his tone turning high pitched, almost happy. “Goodbye, Molls. I’ll be seeing you _very soon._ ” And then the video ended. 

Then the shouting started. 

***

Molly watched the video over and over, ignoring everyone around her, yelling at them to go away whenever they tried to take the laptop away from her. Molly was vaguely aware of Mrs Hudson bustling about, exclaiming how sorry she was for throwing this at everyone, but no one paid her any attention. They were all focussed on the one girl who ever counted, who ever truly mattered, and mithering as to whether she was finally going to break. Oh, how low their faith in her was. She wasn’t breaking, not in the slightest. She was growing, walking into the battlefield with her armour tightly fixed, her barriers up, her sword held high. She was welcoming this challenge, because it was her one chance to finally prove to everyone that she was not the Molly they had all once known, but someone better, someone stronger, and someone who was willing to fight for all it was worth.  
She wanted revenge. She wanted payback on the man who had loved her falsely, used her emotions as their gateway, and even touched her in ways that were now disgusting. She was exhausted from being walked all over and constantly labelled, especially by someone who had ruined her self-esteem to the point it was nothing but ash. Thanks to Moriarty, Molly would probably never trust again, never love another man again, never let a man touch her again. She would never be able to look at Sherlock without capturing a glimpse of Tom in his face. She would never be able to examine a body that had suffered a bullet wound without flinching. She would never have the life she once had. 

“That’s it, she’s going!” John yelled, finally drawing Molly’s attention. “She was lucky once, but I am not taking the risk of losing her again! We send her away to the country, or maybe abroad—”

“And let them hunt me when I’m alone?” Molly inquired with amazing calmness, her voice flat. “Let them kill me when they know no one will ever be able to save me? Yeah, brilliant plan.”

“We’ll keep surveillance on you!” John countered.

“You’ve done that already, and look where it’s landed us?” she snapped in annoyance. John swore, storming out of the room, Mary stumbling awkwardly after him. Sherlock stood at the window, deep in thought, but the rage inside him was hard to miss by the rigidness of his shoulders, the harshness of his breathing. Mrs Hudson moaned helplessly in the armchair, her face in her hands, shaking uncontrollably. Molly felt herself wanting to comfort the little woman, but she knew better. Mrs Hudson was stronger than she let on, and now wasn’t the time for consoling. 

Molly had noticed something about the name of the video. It was a range of numbers, eleven in all. 

**56674278907**

There was something about the number that spoke to her, telling her something important. While the Watson’s argued in the hall, Mrs Hudson wept and Sherlock remained lost in his thoughts, Molly saw that there was probably no other time to do it. Moriarty was challenging her. He wanted her attention. He’d want her to get in touch. She pulled out her phone, a little device Sherlock had given to her in case of an emergency, and began to look at the numbers, or better yet, the letters beneath them.  
5 (J), 66 (M, O), 777 (R, R, Y), 4 (I), 2 (A), 8 (T), 9 (Y). 

J. Moriarty. 

Replace the last two digits and move them to the front, it became apparent. A phone number!  
Sneaking a glance at Sherlock, Molly opened a new text message in her phone and punched in the numbers. Followed by that, she sent the simple words that would entice any lunatic, words that were teasing, challenging, daring. Molly was done hiding, and she was done pretending that everything would work out okay and letting everyone else fight her battles. Now it was her turn to take charge.

 _I am brave, and I’m ready to play._  
\- _MH_

Molly quickly turned her phone to silent, awaiting the inevitable reply. Minutes passed, and Molly began to think that maybe she was wrong and had imagined the number, only to start when the screen lit up before her eyes. Heart hammering in her chest, she opened the message and swallowed. 

_Clever girl, quicker than expected. I’ll be in touch._  
\- _M_

Hands quivering, Molly deleted the text and slipped her phone into her pocket, just as Sherlock’s eyes latched onto hers. He didn’t say a word, nor did he give anything away in his expression, but Molly knew he was angry and afraid. She also knew that he certainly wasn’t stupid. She could see it in his eyes that he knew what she was going to do, and had no intention of stopping her because he knew why she had to do it. She had been wronged by so many people so many times that she was reaching her breaking point, and then only way to fall back into familiar waters was to brave the raging storm that was coming her way. Sherlock would never ask anyone to fight his own battles, so why should he take charge and fight hers? 

He nodded at her ever so slightly, as if giving his blessing to her plan. She blinked, tears stinging her eyes, as he retrieved his coat from the back of the arm chair and slipped it on, followed by his beloved scarf. Quietly he walked over to her, close enough that she could feel his warmth, and he bent towards his. Cool lips latched onto her temple in a soft kiss, lingering, his breath warm and cold at the same time. Then, not saying a word, he left her and the Watson house, the door slipping closed behind him. Mrs Hudson hadn’t even noticed he’d moved, let alone gone entirely, and remained whining hopelessly into her hands. 

Molly sat back and watched the video one last time, memorising it, before she turned the laptop off. Then she closed her eyes and sighed, letting the sounds of the voices around her drain out of her, slipping into a deadly silence, but more importantly, willing herself to fight away the tears that burned the back of her throat.  
Molly Hooper was pretty sure that she had just pre-ordered her death certificate in one text, and her time was beginning to run thin.


	6. Chapter 6

Days turned to weeks. 

Five weeks after the attack, Molly was back on her feet. She was healing, both physically and mentally, and was slowly becoming herself again. John changed her stitches three times, taught her how to exercise safely, and even told her how to tend to her wound during the final stages of its healing. Now she was jogging down the street of the Watson’s home, running back and forth, the cool air of spring fresh on her face. She wore her hair up in a bun, covered with a hat, and she had grown a fringe out in order to help conceal her face just a little bit more. Sunglasses were a necessity when outside, as was a pattern of clothing completely out of her own character; skinny jeans, plain t-shirts with open hoddies more so than anything else. She was living by the lifestyle of someone else, playing the part of a woman by the name of Natalie Preston, a cousin of Mary’s who had come to live with them. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t Molly Hooper, not by a long shot. 

She was running one evening as part of her daily exercise. If she wasn’t running, she was stretching in the Watson’s living room or learning basic self-defence moves in case of an attack. Moves such as attacking the eyes, nose and throat had been taught to her extensively by almost everyone out to protect her, even Mary (how Mary knew such moves was beyond Molly). John had even taught her how something as simple as a key was a good weapon, as it could be used to slash an attacker’s cheek. They were teaching her how to attack and escape, just like she wanted, and the more she knew and perfected, the more comfortable in her skin she felt. 

As she ran closer towards the Watson household, Molly heard the hasty approached of footsteps behind her. Just as a hand grasped her arm, Molly swung herself around and swung her fist towards the attacker’s face, effectively connected her knuckles with a sharp nose. The attacker yelled out and stumbled back, effectively releasing her. Molly blinked, stunned by her own new found reflexes, her fist momentarily numb but throbbing. The man on the ground was none other than Sherlock, who was laughing almost gleefully, despite the blood dribbling down his nose and through his fingers.

“Sherlock!” she cried, alarmed, and instantly went to help him up. He dismissed her and jumped to his feet, sniffling while he grinned. “I am so sorry!”

“Why the hell are you sorry?” he demanded with a bark of laugher. “That was brilliant!” 

“Can I punch you in the face more often?” she asked with a smile, the exhaustion of her running draining her in that moment while the adrenaline wore off. Sherlock looked at her and made a face, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Don’t push your luck, Preston.” The use of her fake name made her shudder, but it was necessary. She was only addressed as Molly when indoors and away from prying ears, yet that didn’t make her fake name any more comforting. Sherlock seemed to notice her discomfort—she could see it in his eyes—but he didn’t comment, and Molly readjusted her beanie hat and looked away, letting her a lock of hair fall to hide her face. Sherlock grasped her elbow and pulled her along, and Molly found herself fighting the urge to take on another of her recently taught moves and hit him a second time. 

Opening the door to his best friend’s home, John came through the hall to greet them. One look at his face made the shorter man grin, turning his gaze to Molly as he pointed to Sherlock’s bloody nose. “You?”

“Yep.” Molly said, feeling a blush creep along her cheeks. Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, followed by Mary’s muffled greeting and the sound of the kettle being clicked on. Mary was closer and closer to her due date, just one week away, and Molly found it wondrous that she was still happy and moving around. Then again, when you had John pestering you day in and day out for rest and asking about needs, it seemed only the natural response to defy him and prove that you were capable of doing everything yourself. But sometimes, like now, Molly humoured him; all he wanted was to be the caring husband and friend that he was, and it was cruel to defy him. So Molly allowed him to lead her into the living room and sit her down, letting him check her wound.

“I’ll take the stitches out in a few more weeks.” he told her with a warm smile, his warm fingers carefully prodding the skin around the angry looking bullet wound that was indeed healing. The skin around it was raw, a mix of deep red and purple, but it looked worse than it was. Molly was repeatedly told how lucky she was, and the fact that she was recovering so quickly was a wonder to everyone, even Sherlock. And she felt strong, too. John prodded her here and there along her ribs and around the wound, making her flinch a little but nothing like before when he examined her. She no longer saw red dots of pain behind her eyes nor did she feel the stabbing shot of white fire whenever she moved. Her body was as strong as her mind, though the nightmares still remained. 

She still dreamt of drowning in a black sea, Moriarty cooing songs in her ear as she died with the poison clogging her throat. She would wake up to the sensation of falling, her body thrashing in the bed as Moriarty’s laugh made her snarl viciously into consciousness. She’d wake clutching her throat, struggling to move or breathe, and her nightwear would cling to her sweaty skin in the most uncomfortable fashion. And, with the nightmares, her wound would throb with recognition, registering a pain that was no longer there while the shot of a gun sounded in the back of her mind. And, worse, she wake up in tears and alone in the darkness, the spare room bitterly cold against her scorching skin. And then she would stay awake for the rest of the night, staring into space while her body tried to calm down, stripped down to just her underwear and yet still remaining as hot as a radiator. 

However, where there was a weakness there was strength, and Molly used her nightmares to face her reality with a clear head. Where Moriarty liked to believe in fairy tales, Molly liked to see through the clearness that was reality, and the benefits and consequences it brought with it. 

The doorbell rang, and Molly instinctively stiffened. John, seemingly unfazed, left her without so much as a gesture of comfort to answer it, Mary and Sherlock quickly following him. From the living room Molly listened to muffled hellos and relaxed, sinking back into the cushions. A few moments later, she found herself beaming with surprise. 

“Hello, dear, how are you feeling?”

“Mrs Hudson!” Molly rose to her feet and collected the little woman in her arms, squeezing as tightly as her body allowed. Mrs Hudson giggled and hugged her back, patting her back tenderly. It had been a long time since Molly had seen Sherlock’s landlady, so to see such a friendly, down to earth face brought Molly a wave of fresh relief that it almost overwhelmed her. 

It took Molly a moment to realise that Mrs Hudson had come carrying a bag, a laptop bag at that.

“It is something important?” Sherlock demanded once the two women had parted, strolling in with John and Mary in toe. His nose was no longer bleeding, but he also no longer looked at ease. His tone was clipped, as if he were expecting something from his landlady’s visit, which unnerved Molly greatly.

“Sherlock, I do hope you clean that mess up in the kitchen once you get home, because for the last time I am not your housekeeper.” Was all Mrs Hudson said in response, and in that instant Molly knew. She watched as the elder woman flopped into the sofa, hugging her bag to her chest, and the flash of worry in her eyes was something that made Molly’s stomach lurch. She was stalling, not wanting to share what she had happened across, and Molly no longer felt relieved. The glance between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock only confirmed her worries. 

“What is it?” she asked quietly, distantly wondering if her legs were going to buckle. Another glance was shared, this time between everyone in the room, and Molly felt her blood begin to simmer. “Tell me.” she added in a sharp tone of her own.

A few moments later, Mrs Hudson released and unfolded her laptop and rested it on the coffee table. Molly sat beside her, knees pulled to her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. Sherlock was on Mrs Hudson’s other side, launching into Mrs Hudson’s files as if he had previously been told that something had happened (it wouldn’t surprise her, for Mrs Hudson was amazingly good when it came to texting). He clicked her and there, opening the internet, logging into her emails and pausing when he reached the first new email, titled Molly Hooper.

“Oh no…” Molly breathed. Sherlock clicked into it, downloading an attachment that came with it. There was no text to establish what the file was, but it soon became clear that it was a video. 

John rested on the arm of the sofa beside Molly, his hand squeezing her shoulder, while Mary collapsed into the armchair, her eyes shining with anxiety. Molly’s heart was in her throat, threatening to block her windpipe, her nightmare becoming a reality. Choking, drowning, dying. 

_Focus_. 

Sherlock opened the video, and after a few moments of buffering, it flickered into motion. In that second, Molly could have vomited. 

Jim Moriarty took up most of the frame, the background dark behind him. His hair was as short as it ever was, his brown eyes forever holding that teasing spark. His trademark smirk was firmly in place, his face as handsome as ever, smartly dressed like a gentleman. And the way he looked into the camera, calm and forever seeing what shouldn’t be seen, it felt like he was looking straight into Molly’s soul. 

“I’m beginning to get tired of your games, Miss Hooper.” he said, his voice that same Irish drone, forever bored, forever needing to have a game to play. The hairs on the back of Molly’s neck stood on end, her skin dropping to ice temperatures, and it suddenly felt like it was just her in the room, her and Moriarty. “I honestly thought you were dead. It surprised me that Tom was dead, but I’m not too bothered; I was confident that he’s taken a good shot on you. You surprised me, and I’m beginning to get _very_ annoyed.”

“You bastard.” John seethed, his fists clenched. Molly found herself glaring at the screen, leaning ever so slightly towards it as if willing to challenge the man within the screen.

“If you’re wondering how I know, then you’re an idiot. Everyone always forgets that I have people on the inside, doing what I want them to do without question. Did you really think I would take your death so easily? I had a search for your body, just to be sure, and guess what? Nothing was found, you _bitch!_ ”

Molly flinched, her nails clawing into her legs until she felt the warmth of her own blood. Her eyes didn’t waver from Moriarty’s face; if they did, she was admitting defeat to fear. 

Moriarty giggled, composing himself. “I’m sorry but it just wasn’t supposed to be so difficult to get rid of you! Molly Hooper, the girl who watched Glee and had better relationships with the dead than the living! It’s a joke!” His face changed then, turning into something more sinister, the grin on his mouth chilling her to the bone. His eyes gazed intently into the camera, directly at her, and it was hard to distinguish whether the video was live or not. “I’m coming for you, Molls. You were right; I was a coward for sending your dear Tom. So this time it’s just me and you, our own little game. How does that sound? Do you still feel brave? _Do you?!_ ” There was a pause, a gap that awaited her answer. Molly bit into her lip viciously. “I sure hope so. Being brave is the only thing that will save you now.”

Sherlock cursed below his breath, and John was now pacing the room in a fit of rage. Mary sat quietly, staring blankly at the floor, and Mrs Hudson looked to be on the verge of years. Molly was the only one who seemed to be in any kind of control. 

Moriarty grinned, his tone turning high pitched, almost happy. “Goodbye, Molls. I’ll be seeing you _very_ soon.” And then the video ended. 

Then the shouting started. 

***

Molly watched the video over and over, ignoring everyone around her, yelling at them to go away whenever they tried to take the laptop away from her. Molly was vaguely aware of Mrs Hudson bustling about, exclaiming how sorry she was for throwing this at everyone, but no one paid her any attention. They were all focussed on the one girl who ever counted, who ever truly mattered, and mithering as to whether she was finally going to break. Oh, how low their faith in her was. She wasn’t breaking, not in the slightest. She was growing, walking into the battlefield with her armour tightly fixed, her barriers up, her sword held high. She was welcoming this challenge, because it was her one chance to finally prove to everyone that she was not the Molly they had all once known, but someone better, someone stronger, and someone who was willing to fight for all it was worth.  


She wanted revenge. She wanted payback on the man who had loved her falsely, used her emotions as their gateway, and even touched her in ways that were now disgusting. She was exhausted from being walked all over and constantly labelled, especially by someone who had ruined her self-esteem to the point it was nothing but ash. Thanks to Moriarty, Molly would probably never trust again, never love another man again, never let a man touch her again. She would never be able to look at Sherlock without capturing a glimpse of Tom in his face. She would never be able to examine a body that had suffered a bullet wound without flinching. She would never have the life she once had. 

“That’s it, she’s going!” John yelled, finally drawing Molly’s attention. “She was lucky once, but I am not taking the risk of losing her again! We send her away to the country, or maybe abroad—”

“And let them hunt me when I’m alone?” Molly inquired with amazing calmness, her voice flat. “Let them kill me when they know no one will ever be able to save me? Yeah, brilliant plan.”

“We’ll keep surveillance on you!” John countered.

“You’ve done that already, and look where it’s landed us?” she snapped in annoyance. John swore, storming out of the room, Mary stumbling awkwardly after him. Sherlock stood at the window, deep in thought, but the rage inside him was hard to miss by the rigidness of his shoulders, the harshness of his breathing. Mrs Hudson moaned helplessly in the armchair, her face in her hands, shaking uncontrollably. Molly felt herself wanting to comfort the little woman, but she knew better. Mrs Hudson was stronger than she let on, and now wasn’t the time for consoling. 

Molly had noticed something about the name of the video. It was a range of numbers, eleven in all. 

**56674278907**

There was something about the number that spoke to her, telling her something important. While the Watson’s argued in the hall, Mrs Hudson wept and Sherlock remained lost in his thoughts, Molly saw that there was probably no other time to do it. Moriarty was challenging her. He wanted her attention. He’d want her to get in touch. She pulled out her phone, a little device Sherlock had given to her in case of an emergency, and began to look at the numbers, or better yet, the letters beneath them.

5 (J), 66 (M, O), 777 (R, R, Y), 4 (I), 2 (A), 8 (T), 9 (Y). 

J. Moriarty. 

Replace the last two digits and move them to the front, it became apparent. A phone number!

Sneaking a glance at Sherlock, Molly opened a new text message in her phone and punched in the numbers. Followed by that, she sent the simple words that would entice any lunatic, words that were teasing, challenging, daring. Molly was done hiding, and she was done pretending that everything would work out okay and letting everyone else fight her battles. Now it was her turn to take charge.

_I am brave, and I’m ready to play._  
\- _MH_

Molly quickly turned her phone to silent, awaiting the inevitable reply. Minutes passed, and Molly began to think that maybe she was wrong and had imagined the number, only to start when the screen lit up before her eyes. Heart hammering in her chest, she opened the message and swallowed. 

_Clever girl, quicker than expected. I’ll be in touch._  
\- _M_

Hands quivering, Molly deleted the text and slipped her phone into her pocket, just as Sherlock’s eyes latched onto hers. He didn’t say a word, nor did he give anything away in his expression, but Molly knew he was angry and afraid. She also knew that he certainly wasn’t stupid. She could see it in his eyes that he knew what she was going to do, and had no intention of stopping her because he knew why she had to do it. She had been wronged by so many people so many times that she was reaching her breaking point, and then only way to fall back into familiar waters was to brave the raging storm that was coming her way. Sherlock would never ask anyone to fight his own battles, so why should he take charge and fight hers? 

He nodded at her ever so slightly, as if giving his blessing to her plan. She blinked, tears stinging her eyes, as he retrieved his coat from the back of the arm chair and slipped it on, followed by his beloved scarf. Quietly he walked over to her, close enough that she could feel his warmth, and he bent towards his. Cool lips latched onto her temple in a soft kiss, lingering, his breath warm and cold at the same time. Then, not saying a word, he left her and the Watson house, the door slipping closed behind him. Mrs Hudson hadn’t even noticed he’d moved, let alone gone entirely, and remained whining hopelessly into her hands. 

Molly sat back and watched the video one last time, memorising it, before she turned the laptop off. Then she closed her eyes and sighed, letting the sounds of the voices around her drain out of her, slipping into a deadly silence, but more importantly, willing herself to fight away the tears that burned the back of her throat.  
Molly Hooper was pretty sure that she had just pre-ordered her death certificate in one text, and her time was beginning to run thin.


	7. Chapter 7

The clocked stopped ticking the very next night, just as the sun was going down. John had rushed out on one of many searches for Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, after a frustrating day concerning Molly’s safety, and Mary settled down for another uncomfortable night (apparently the baby had become nocturnal and just wouldn’t stop moving during the night). Molly had gotten into the routine of staying up late and instead relaxed in the living room with a cup of tea, looking out the window absently from the armchair. Sherlock had made a no show today, and John had complained angrily about his absence. He’d even gone to Baker Street in search of his friend, but the detective was nowhere to be found. Molly didn’t have a clue where he’d gone, but she was in no mood to care either. Sherlock gallivanted off wherever and whenever he chose, and sometimes he didn’t show up for days on end. Something had probably come up in a new case, one that was simple enough that he didn’t need John’s assistance. Whatever it was, Molly was alone, just as she wanted to be; she’d be able to disappear more easily that way. 

The text came just after midnight. She was downing the last of her tea when it came through, and she found herself remarkably calm in the process. She didn’t start at the buzz of the device that was in a vice grip, and her heart didn’t speed up as she opened it to read. She felt nothing, because there was nothing left to feel. 

_Time to talk. Get the door; I have a gift waiting for you._  
\- _M_

Molly, not even bothering to think it over, did as she was told. Silently she rose to her feet and padded quietly to the front door. Opening it, she saw what she expected; a sleek black car was waiting for her, its engine humming ever so softly in the dim light just a little way up the road. With tinted windows and headlights slowly brimming with light at the opening of the door, Molly thought it reminded her of a panther, lying in wait for its prey. Next to the car stood a man at the back seat door, holding it open like a butler. He wore an incredibly dark suit, his hair black and his face hidden in shadow. Upon seeing her he motioned for her to join him, and Molly did so but not without the quiver in her knees. Though she felt calm, her body had other ideas. 

As she approached, the man bowed in greeting. “Miss Hooper.” Molly shivered, glaring at him, and then slipped into the back of the car with very little argument. She wasn’t surprised to find the backseat empty aside from her, and there was a very still, dark man sat in the driver’s seat who didn’t even bother to turn and look at her. 

As the first man slipped into the passenger seat, Molly sank back as she slipped on her seatbelt out of habit. She let the smell of leather envelope her and closed her eyes, the scent taking her back to a time when she was a little girl and her dad would take her out in his shiny new car. She remembered the leather in that one and pretended that this was the same car, her father being the driver. She envisioned the world zipping past in a blur, the engine purring happily in her ears, and while she squealed with glee her father would laugh and shout, _“You okay back there, baby girl?”_ The memory made Molly’s lips quirk in a tiny smile, and for a moment she forgot about the hell she had been put through in the last few years. 

The car drove smoothly for about twenty minutes until the road began to get rougher, knocking Molly out of her dreamy past. She recognised the River Thames in what little light there was that shone over the water, creating a sheet of shimmering diamonds below the sky. As the car bobbed along, she glimpsed herself in the tinted window, capturing her face that was frozen in an unnerving mask. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail, and she was dressed in a simple hoodie, t-shirt, skinny jeans and trainers. She didn’t feel pretty or glamorous, not now. She felt small and wounded, limited to what she could do. She couldn’t be someone she wasn’t; she’d never been good at acting. She wasn’t like Irene Adler, who had surfaced once or twice as a beautiful, cunning, desirable, and downright fierce… everything Molly wasn’t. She could never be like the women in films, who tricked the villain by being incredibly sexy and captivating. Dressing like this was basically her accepting defeat but storming into the final fight anyway, because it was the only thing she had left.

The car stopped and the man who had greeted her got out. She sat quietly, waiting while quickly clicking her seatbelt out of place. Her heart was beginning to pound now, catching up with events, and she struggled to keep her breath steady. Her palms began to sweat aggressively, which they hadn’t done since the day she’d met Sherlock in the morgue all those years ago. It felt like a dream now. Who would have thought that the road from there would lead to this? Slowly Molly blinked, fending of warm tears as she did.

Her door opened and the man helped her out. She didn’t bother looking into his face, for there was no point. Her story was about to end, so what was the point in adding another face to her nightmares? He took her elbow and began to lead her silently from the car, the gravel beneath their feet crunching and sounding absurdly loud. Molly listened to her breath, forcing it to be calm while desperately trying to ignore the sudden twisting of her gut, as well as the familiar throb of her wound that seemed to awaken with the horrific memories tonight was bringing to her. Instead she held her head held high, awaiting the arrival of a painfully familiar face. 

Walking into what seemed like an abandoned warehouse, the door barely coping on its hinges, the man pulled Molly along more roughly as they closed in on their destination. It was dark and cold, the smell of mud and rain thick in the air. She could barely see anything aside from the pillars here and there, and then they came up to another door. Kicking it open, the man dragged Molly through, and a small whimper escaped her as his fingers began to dig into her arm. So before was an act. He was being polite so as not to raise suspicion from anyone who may have been watching. Clearly this was a man who just wanted to get his job over and done with. 

Suddenly he released her, and Molly stood in a black room with nearly no light. She heard the footsteps of the man fall away from her and then the distant slamming of a door, and for a second she was able to trick herself into thinking she was alone. She squared her shoulders and flexed her hands at her side, tempted to crack her knuckles. The air circled her, bitter on her face, numbing her fingers and toes. She felt like she stood there for hours when in reality it was only minutes. She knew she wasn’t alone. She could feel his presence like a mother was aware of their child; he was somewhere along the walls, probably grinning as he fed on her own fear. 

At last, a chuckle sounded, and there was a spark of light in the room. Molly’s breath caught in her throat. 

“My, you do look different.” The Irish voice spoke out fondly. Molly pulled her eyes towards the light, but it was gone before she could glimpse it. A candle, or maybe a lighter? Frowning, she looked around as she listened to Moriarty move around her, circling her like a cat. Then she heard a click, followed by blindness as bright lights flickered on above her. She squinted as tears of discomfort burned her eyes, something like a distant headache yanking on the cords in the back of her head painfully. 

“Really?” she said through slit eyes. “I hadn’t noticed.” 

He was behind her, closer now, and he reminded her of a mocking poltergeist. “Hmm… something is most certainly different. You stand straighter; my Molly was much slouchier.”

“I was not your Molly.” Molly spat through her teeth, clenching her fists so hard that her nails dug into her palms, the blood in her ears singing with a newfound rage.

And then he was right behind her, grabbing her possessively. An arm wrapped around her middle and yanked back, making her cry out with pain, while the other hand came around her face to cup her cheek, pulling her head back. He was warm and lean against her, just like she remembered him being. She could feel the tenseness of his muscles and the tender touch in his fingers that began to stroke her cheek in adoration. She swallowed down the whimpers that threatened to fall from her and let herself go, sinking into him in order to play along with his game. At this point, she didn’t really see another choice. 

Dipping his mouth to the curve of her throat, he spoke again. “You are, Molls. Don’t you remember our time together? They were the best of times, weren’t they?” His lips were soft on her skin, teasing her in the most familiar fashion, yet this time she didn’t quiver in bliss but froze in disgust. “It broke my heart when you ended things. Truly, it did. I thought we had something.”

Molly laughed breathlessly, and the venom that dripped into her voice startled her. “No, you had something with Sherlock; I was just your gateway.”

With horrid force he swung her around his face him as if she were in a waltz, and the fire in her abdomen made her scream. He made a point of adding pressure on her wound as he pulled her against him, having her at his mercy. Hand on her waist, all her had to do was move his thumb up as few inches and push, and she’d be on the ground howling in pain. He knew it, she knew it, and quite frankly she was more than willing to behave. 

He was as beautiful as she remembered. Pale and endearing against his black suit, his eyes dark but warm like dark chocolate, he looked at her with something of familiarity. She found herself losing herself in his features, his beautiful yet cruel face. How could someone look so stunning and innocent and yet commit the most horrendous crimes? Then again, how was Sherlock any different? He was perfect in every sense of the word and yet so damaged it sometimes took control of him. Sherlock was in a constant war with himself, whereas Jim Moriarty was past that war and living by his own rules, the king of his own madness. 

Locking her to him, Moriarty pressed his hand against the small of her back and tugged her closer so that no more air could pass between them. Then, with the hand at her waist, he guided one of her hands to his shoulder before shooting a glance at the other, to which she found no choice but to mimic that of the first. They were in a position of a couple dancing, yet they were far from dancing. He was reading her, recollecting what he already knew and then adding the things he didn’t. He was taking himself back the way she had, back to a time when they had both been in a dream, false or not.

“Remember?” he whispered, gently brushing his thumb over her delicate stomach, his hand somehow having slipped beneath her t-shirt. “Remember the perfect nights together? Remember how happy we were? I can give you that again, just say the word and I can make it happen.”

Molly swallowed, and drowning every drop of fear she had inside her, she growled her response. “You are a liar. What we had was _nothing!_ In fact, there was never even a _we!_ You manipulated me and used me and _hurt_ me; for God’s sake, you sent my own ex fiancé out to _kill_ me!” She clenched her fingers hard into his shoulders, nails bared, and she certainly didn’t miss the pain of slight pain in his eyes as she continued. “Do you really think a few words will have me grovelling at your feet begging for you to have me? _How stupid do you think I am?!_ ”

He blinked, clearly surprised, and suddenly he looked incredibly childish. “Well, I was hoping you’d be at least a little stupid.”

Molly made a sound that was something of a snarl, and without even thinking tried to push against him in a fury. Big mistake. He pushed his thumb into her wound without remorse and Molly screamed in agony, they bolt of torment making her see white flashes. Before she could even sink, Moriarty pushed against her so forcefully that she gasped, and effectively knocked the breath out of her as he slammed her into the wall. Pain shot up her spine and spread throughout her body, and the only thing she could do was cry out, yet even that was muffled as Moriarty slammed his palm against her mouth to silence her. 

He leaned towards her, whispering in her ear, his voice a little breathless. “I like this side of you, Miss Hooper. It’s incredibly sexy, though I do wish you dressed up for the occasion, and then this whole situation would have gotten a whole lot hotter.”

Molly almost choked in revulsion, and violently began to struggle against him while spitting out, _“Get your hands off me!”_

With maddening composure, Moriarty captured both of her wrists in his hands and raised them above her head, ramming them into the wall behind her. Still she struggled and he pressed himself against her once again, his face inches from hers, his breath warm and sweet on her lips. They were toe to toe, chest to chest and nose to nose, and the closeness made Molly want to scream in terror and sick repulsion. His touch was awful, making her remember things she deeply wanted to forget, and finally fear began to take its course. 

“Face it, Molls,” he cooed, kissing her throat. “you want me.”

 _Stop touching me, stop touching me, STOP TOUCHING ME!_ “NO!” She cried, her voice echoing off the walls and yelling right back at her repeatedly. Moriarty sighed in annoyance when she began to struggle yet again, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if this were a regular occurrence. He pulled on her wrists and then rocked her back into the wall, slamming her against it once, twice, three times, until finally she stopped. Grabbing hold of her ponytail he pulled her head back, forcing her to look into those near black eyes, like the pits of Hell itself. 

“After careful consideration, I’ve decided I don’t want to kill you.” he told her calmly. “Quite the opposite, actually. I want to use you. I want you to work with me.” He shushed her when she immediately began to object, once again preventing her from making a sound by covering her mouth with his hand. She tried to bite him, but she could barely move her jaw. “Now, now, listen to me. I can give you a much better life. I can give you anything you want; money, men, _me_ … you could be my Queen in the world of consulting crime. Think about it! I’d have Sherlock on his knees simply by using you, the one thing that ever truly mattered to him. You’d become the most famous woman in London, the woman who fooled everyone into thinking she was innocent! You could be the John Watson to my Sherlock Holmes!” He leaned into her, pressing his mouth against her forehead which was now damp with sweat. “You can finish what you actually started. I’m giving you another chance, Molly. After what you did to save my dear Sherlock, I should really be grateful. You’ve given me another game to play, and this time it can be bigger, _better_ , and you would simply be the cherry on top of a very divine cake.”

Abruptly he released her, whirling away and slipping his hands into his pockets. He seemed to look around in wonder, walking slowly about the room as he continued. “Or, you know, we could start a ‘I Faked My Own Death Club’ with Sherlock and The Woman. That would certainly be interesting, don’t you think? We could double date!” 

She stared at him, gobsmacked and truly terrified, shivering but not from the cold. He was feeding her yet more lies; once he got rid of Sherlock, he would no doubt kill her, too, as well as John, Mrs Hudson, Mary, Greg… everyone! He’d kill them all painfully and mercilessly. Molly didn’t mean anything to him. She knew he just thought of her as stupid even now, seeing her as the gullible Molly he had known three years earlier. But she wasn’t. She knew him because she could read people just like Sherlock could, just like Mycroft could, only not in the same way. She knew who people were by good judgement and terrible experiences, not detailed deductions, and Moriarty was in for a shock if he thought for even a moment that Molly would ever join him. 

“I would rather vomit, eat it, and then choke to death on it.” she growled. Moriarty paused, his back to her. After a few moments he began to bark with laughter, his whole body shaking. The laughter, though, was not humorous. Far from it, actually. It was livid laughter. 

“Are you telling me _no?_ ” he demanded, spinning around to face her. He didn’t look angry, but Molly knew better. Anger was far worse when there was no rising of voices or physical violence. “Molly, I don’t think you understand. I’m giving you something so much better here! A life without limits!”

“I don’t _need_ a life without limits. I will not go up against Sherlock with you, I will not become a monster like you, and I will _never_ help you kill my friends.” She stepped forward, fists shaking at her sides, glaring at him murderously. “If you go and kill them, then you might as well take me with them; you’re going to anyway.”

He laughed again breathlessly, apparently not believing what he was hearing. “Do you truly think Sherlock and his little friends care about you? They were hiding you away because they _owe_ you. Sherlock will forever be in your debt, and his little followers do whatever he pleases! They don’t care about you, you’re not a necessity, you are just plain and boring Molly Hooper who cuts people up for a living!” He came striding towards her, stopping just a few feet away from her. “Sherlock has never liked being in anyone’s debt, and your death would only drive him mad with unwanted guilt. You mean nothing to any of them.”

“You’re wrong.” Molly murmured. She took another step towards him, close enough to touch him, his fingers itches to grab at his throat as her uncharacteristic rage blinded her with a sheet of red behind her eyes. 

“I’m never wrong.” he counted, moving so that their shoes touched once more, his eyes swallowing her up with anger and eagerness. She wanted to smile; he thought he had her. He thought he’d made her come around. Oh, he was so _adorable._

“Nope,” she said. “you’re definitely _wrong_.” And then she lashed out quicker than light, her fist colliding into his throat just below his Adam’s apple. Moriarty gasped, clutching at his neck, and Molly wasted no time in knocking him to the ground. Both of them cried out as Molly struggled to straddle him, locking her hand around his throat in an iron grip while she pushed her other hand against his face, digging her thumb into one of his eye sockets. The man screamed, thrashing below her, kicking and punching with blind precision. He hit Molly once or twice without causing any real damage, but them he caught her in her most tender spot and sent her rolling, shrieking in agony. 

Blood began to wet her shirt; he’d opened her wound.

Though she knew she wasn’t going to die from blood loss this time, the pain was still excruciating as she stumbled to her feet. Panting, she caught Moriarty rushing her, screaming her name in a blind fury. She met him head on and raised her knee, sending him to the ground yet again but pulling her down with him. He locked his arm around her throat and pulled, locking off her windpipe as she clawed at his arm. Finally, with awkward and painful effort, she managed to sink her teeth into his arm through the fabric of his jacket. Hard. 

“ _YOU BITCH!_ ” He rammed his palm into his temple, shocking her and making her head suddenly ring with a startled pain. Rolling away, Molly looked around with a disorientation expression, distantly hearing a strange banging noise. Moriarty stood over her, kicking furiously as the dirt as he prepared his next hit while he had Molly out of action. She could see clearly, think clearly, and was instead consumed by pain, anger and downright terror, and that was more than any human body could go through. She just wanted it all to end, and as she felt Moriarty prepare behind her, and rose to her knees and closed her eyes, awaiting the final blow. 

She heard the door suddenly bang open, and Molly’s eyes snapped open in an instant. Moriarty was fast in that second. He came behind Molly and grabbed in an arm lock, squeezing her throat just enough that it hurt to breathe. Pulling her to her feet, he began to chuckle madly, and then Molly finally broke down in tears; he’d pulled a gun free from his jacket and was now holding it to her temple.

In the doorway stood a man with two companions in black hoods, one holding a gun while the other stood empty handed. The man in the middle was someone she recognised intimately, 

Sherlock Holmes had never looked more helpless in all the time Molly had known him, and that’s how she knew she was more than likely going to die.


	8. Chapter 8

The night was cold when the outdoor air caressed Molly’s skin, the breeze tousling her already dishevelled hair. She could feel it like fingers stroking her flesh, cool and beckoning her attention, and it loosened the fist in her chest that was crushing her heart and lungs. She could breathe. She gasped in the air as if she’d surfaced from the water, letting the icy air freeze the pain inside her as well as destroy the terrible bacteria that Moriarty had planted on her; he was a disease, threatening to poison her, just like the black seas in her dreams. 

Molly felt herself being lowered to the ground, voices murmuring over her. Gravel gnawed into her back through her clothes, biting at her, urging her to stay awake. She could feel the world slipping away from her like silk slipping over a table’s edge, but it wasn’t like dying. When she’d been dying before, she’d been thrashing against black waves, screaming, desperate for someone to find her and pull her out. The world had spun out of control as she fought for her life, the pain and emotional hurt expanding around her in a twister of horror, sweeping her away and pulling her down, down, down, until she couldn’t find the strength to breathe. This was nothing like that. 

She heard her name being yelled repeatedly, yet she couldn’t bring herself to focus. She was awake, alive, but all she could see was the sky up above. The stars were out, a sheet of diamonds in the sky. It was beautiful, and reminded her of a time when she was seventeen. Her Aunt Lillie had had a field behind her house when Molly has resided there all those years ago, and on summer evenings Molly would slip out of the house, jump over the two walls separating her from the field, crossing a road in between. Then she had just laid there for hours, watching the moon and stars, forgetting all the loneliness that had suffocated her for so long. It was the only thing she missed about the countryside, but even that felt like it shouldn’t have been real. Her youth had just been a terrible dream, the stars the only silver lining in her grey life. The city is what woke her up, and she had been awake for so long that she’d forgotten what it was like to dream about the stars. This was the first time she had seen them in years; the fumes of the city swallowed them up as easily as they devoured her own memories. 

And that’s when she realised that she had never been more awake in her life, seeing the world in a new light. She’d done the impossible; she’d proven herself. After years and years of being told she was nothing, that she was stupid and weak, she’d broken through the fog that had controlled her life for so long, rained on it until there was nothing left anymore. At last she could see, breathe and even hear fresh hope in her life, the light of a new beginning burning ferociously in each star that sparkled above her in the sky.  
Molly Hooper was free, alive, and ready to live again. 

Faces blurred into focus, blocking out the sheet of glitter. She blinked, seeing two men on either side of her, tapping her face and calling her name, summoning her to listen to them. The loud beat of her heart thumped heavily before dying away, yanking forth reality in its wake. In the distance she heard sirens, yelling, footsteps turning the gravel in violent haste. 

“Miss Hooper, can you hear me?” one of the men asked her, stroking a thumb along her cheekbone, his glowing blue eyes concerned as they stared at her. 

“M-Molly.” she croaked, coughing a little. She wanted to squirm, for she felt hands on the skin of her stomach, pushing down on her painfully, but something in the back of her mind told her not to. They were helping her, and the pain was the unwanted part of the deal. 

“What?” asked the man, pulling his hand away from her face. 

“Call me… Molly.” she forced the words out even though it hurt to speak. “Miss Hooper… is my mother.”

The man chuckled and momentarily pulled himself out of her line of sight. She blinked again, confused, the world not entirely in focus yet. The sirens grew louder, more demanding, and Molly fought the urge to cover her ears against such a cruel, deafening sound. She used to do that when she was little, during the rare fights her parents would have. She’d hid in her wardrobe as they screamed at each other, threatening to end their marriage, and at the time Molly had found it agonising to listen to. Not now. When she grew up and thought back on such arguments, she realised that though her parents had threatened one another extensively, they had had such chemistry that no threat could have truly torn them apart. That’s was truly ruined her mother, because the death of her husband had emotionally killed her, too, for the chemistry and heat of her marriage had been her lifeline. 

Suddenly, the pressure from her stomach vanished as did the presence of her two hooded guardians. She heard a car skid before breaking, followed by the opening and slamming of a door. Someone screamed her name—no, more than one person—and Molly forced herself to truly reconnect with herself and wake up completely. She sat up, crying out a little, and at first she was alone. Then, footsteps loud and running straight towards her, face after face came swimming into view. 

Greg, Mary and Mrs Hudson. 

She heard John’s voice carry away with the wind, and she knew he’d be running to Sherlock’s aid. She was glad that he was. 

Extending a bloody hand, she reached for the faces in front of her. Three hands grasped her arm, tight and seeming to refuse to ever let go. Molly felt herself rise, strength swimming to her legs, and she found herself encircled in a family she had always known and accepted, even if they didn’t accept her. But they did, she knew they did. They held her and comforted her, supporting her and the burden that was her life, murmuring that she was safe. She believed them. 

Letting them walk her towards a vehicle flashing red and blue, Molly felt as if she had been in a similar situation before, reliving that of a dream. She wasn’t sure, but she couldn’t find herself caring, either. All that mattered was that she wasn’t alone and that she was safe.  
She would always be safe. 

***

Twenty minutes later, Molly came around completely. She sat in the back of an ambulance van, a doctor tending to her stomach and stitching her wound together again. He assured her that there was no real damage and that she would heal after plenty of rest which Molly would more than welcome when the time came. But right now she had to stay awake and alert, pay attention to everything around her, burn the images into her brain so that she would never forget. She went over everything in her mind, replayed the night to every explicit detail, because tonight was the night that she would never be the same again. She needed to remember it, just in case she was to ever lose hope in herself again. She couldn’t go back. Ever. 

When the doctor was done, he draped an orange blanket over her shoulders, causing her to shiver automatically when she realised how cold she was. She could see her own breath in the air, remarkably steady before her eyes. The doctor left her then and nodded his permission for Molly to be approached, and Molly prepared herself for the inevitable; some very upset friends. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Greg yelled, striding towards her after hovering around for more than she was sure he was comfortable with. He jumped into the vehicle beside Molly and grabbed her shoulders almost painfully, and the pain in his usually teasing, thoughtful eyes frightened her. “You’re so _stupid!_ ”

Tears burned her eyes, yet Molly found herself smiling. Greg smirked, but the smile was so sad and drained, the shadows beneath his eyes labelling him as exhausted. Instead of saying anything, she hugged the detective so tightly she was afraid she would stop him from breathing, but Greg only held her back. He rubbed his hand up and down the length of her spine, whispering soothing words to her, telling her how truly proud of her he was despite her own stupidity. But Molly knew she wasn’t stupid and that Greg didn’t mean it. He would probably never understand why she did what she did, but he still didn’t think she was stupid. Mad, maybe? She wasn’t bothered, for the only thing she needed right now was the warmth of someone familiar, the smell of someone she knew and cared for, a sign that some things hadn’t changed. Greg smelled of his cologne as well as body odour, yet she inhaled him like a child inhaled the smell of a freshly baked cake. He was solid and real, proof that this nightmare was over, and Molly began to sob into his shoulder. 

“Oh, Molly,” someone behind her cooed with sadness, and Molly looked back to see Mrs Hudson staring at her solemnly. Molly pulled away from Greg and extended her arms, to which the older woman stepped into without hesitation. She wrapped her arms around Molly and squeezed, shushing her softly, murmuring apologies. What she was sorry for was beyond Molly but she accepted them anyway, hanging on to Mrs Hudson with all her might. She needed to be reminded of the innocence life had, and though Mrs Hudson was indeed an oddity in everyone’s life, she was still true to who she was; and friend, maybe even a mother, which is exactly what Molly needed right now. 

After a further ten minutes of medical check-ups, consoling and grief, Molly watched as many police officers exited the warehouse. She didn’t miss each glance come her way, all of them filled with pity, and Molly vigorously wiped her tears away from her cheeks. Greg left her side to speak with the officers, who circled around one of the police cruisers, and Mrs Hudson made a worried sound below her breath. Molly caught Mary standing close to the doors of the warehouse, clearly worried and uncomfortable as her hands caressed her swollen stomach. Her eyes were pinned on the building, scanning each face that exited it, waiting for her husband to appear. 

John came out a few moments later, jogging towards his wife and collecting her in his arms carefully. Molly strained her ears, listening hard as her heart leapt into her throat. She caught the words “it’s alright” and “he’s fine”, and Molly instantly sagged with relief. Sitting on the gurney beside her, Mrs Hudson took Molly’s hand in hers and patted it, smiling warmly. Molly barely felt it. Her eyes, like Mary’s had been before, were pinned on the building, waiting, watching, worrying despite knowing that he was okay. 

When Sherlock finally did walk out, looking slightly beaten but otherwise unharmed, Molly didn’t hesitate to leave her post despite the call of protest from one of the doctors. Mrs Hudson didn’t say a word but rather smiled brightly, bringing her hands to her face with what looked like an underlining trace of delight. Molly pushed aside the pain and started running, running to the one man who she had ever truly trusted, and even found herself shouting his name. His head snapped up, pausing in his approach towards the Watsons, and then his intelligent eyes landed on Molly herself as she flung herself at him. 

Molly wrapped her arms tightly around the detective’s neck, sobbing with relief, sinking against him and she allowed herself to truly appreciate how real he was. For a moment he didn’t respond to her, going still against her smaller frame from what must have been surprise. Then, with her ear pressed desperately against his chest in order to feel the beat of his heart, he released a steady breath and folded his arms around her. She suddenly felt tiny, trapped against one of the most famous men in London, but she had never felt more whole and safe in her life. She clung on to him like it was the last thing she would ever do, which Sherlock hardly seemed to mind. He was steady against her, warm and oh so real, and Molly could almost delude herself into thinking that this was just a twisted but wonderful dream. 

But the warmth grew. She heard her name whispered by more than one voice, and she felt herself being consumed by more than one body. Hands touched her, arms wound around her, breaths were hot and comforting on her skin. She felt someone hug into her back, someone else cling to her arm. Sherlock shifted to the side slightly, releasing Molly almost completely but keeping an arm securely around her waist. She took a peek and saw Mary, all blonde hair and teary eyes, reaching for Molly. She let out another sob and reached for her, too. They were all holding onto her, all of them truly there and protecting her in a circle of friendship and love; they were being the family she never truly had until this moment. Sherlock, John, Mary, Mrs Hudson and Greg were all Molly Hooper would ever need. 

“How touching,” snarled an Irish tone, and Molly finally opened her eyes. She didn’t feel fear or anger or even grief now, but she felt grey, like the colour. Why? Because where she should have been afraid, she actually pitied Jim Moriarty. Where Molly had spent the entirety of her life believing she was alone in a cruel world, she was actually one of the lucky ones; she was loved, even by the people who were thought of as incapable love such as Sherlock. She had a blanket of warmth and love and friendship, and though it was dysfunctional, it was still perfect. But Jim Moriarty had nothing but his own brutally wonderful mind. No one would ever love him as passionately as Molly was; he would never feel that connection to someone, never experience a loving touch without it being a lie. Moriarty was all alone. 

Despite the protective stillness of her friends, Molly managed to silently peel herself away from them, one hand at a time. She felt the cold envelope her in a swirling breeze, and a part of her thought of a villain creating such chills when present. Moriarty was in handcuffs wound securely behind his back, his back pushed forward ever so slightly as he was led to the police car. He had an officer on either on his arm, pulling him along, but they stopped when Molly slowly approached. Moriarty was bruised and bloody, his hair mussed violently, his suit dirty and ripped here and there, yet he was still beautiful. Broken, but beautiful. Molly had always had a good heart, and looking at him, she knew that he was just unfortunate; Sherlock could have so easily ended up like this, but he was lucky because Greg found him all those years ago.

Nobody found Jim when he needed to be found.

His dark eyes were far gone, laced with a hatred that chilled Molly to the bone. She felt his loathing slither along her skin, prickling the hairs on the back of her neck, but she hardly backed down from her approach. She stood close enough that she could feel the rigidness of his rage vibrating off of him and polluting the air. And closer she went. The man straightened his back to rival her challenge, glaring, and she knew he was fisting his hands behind his back. She reached up, stroking his cheek ever so softly before slithering her fingers around his neck, his skin hot beneath her fingers. She stared right into his eyes, locking them on hers to gain his full attention. And then she dug her nails into his skin. 

Where Molly was gentle, she was also fierce, and she had a message to deliver. 

She pulled harshly on his neck so that he was bent towards her, nose to nose. His eyes widened with genuine surprise, and Molly was distantly amazed that the officers didn’t scold her for doing what she was doing. She inhaled his scent and the bitterness that was laced within it while memorising his face, from the darkest shade of brown in his eyes to the sharpness of his stubble covered jaw. He stared at her, not saying a word, his breathing so steady it was as if she wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. Finally she pressed her forehead to his, staring hard, letting her hurt and anger and pity flow from her and into him.

“Thank you, Jim.” she whispered, fighting the urge to speak through gritted teeth. His mouth morphed into a twisted smile. 

“For what?” he asked softly. 

She knew he would never understand the next words to fall from her mouth. “For helping me prove myself.” But she knew he would understand the next line perfectly. “ _I. Owe. You._ ” 

She saw the flash in his eyes before anyone else and jumped back, for he was lunging at her in a blink, dragging her name through the mud in vile curses. John grabbed her wrist and pulled her away and back into the circle of her friends, placing himself in front of her as if it might shield her from the terrible words Moriarty was screaming. In fact, everyone mimicked the action, watching the Consulting Criminal being dragged away towards the car. It wasn’t until the door closed on him that all went silent, and while everyone else turned away, Molly continued to watch. 

Jim caught her eyes, his jaw set, eyes blazing through the window. Then, to complete the image of one horrific night, he grinned just as the cruiser pulled away. 

***

The next day, after a night at the police station reporting in her statement, Molly returned home, her real home. She hadn’t been here for five weeks, so it was no surprise that she was a little unnerved to come back. She wasn’t even sure she could still live here; the images of Tom’s attack were still fresh in her mind. Greg had informed her that, not counting Tom’s body of course, hardly anything had been touched since the night of the attack aside from the cleaning of the blood in the kitchen. But Molly had to go back in order to face her demons, simply because she knew she was strong enough to do so. 

Indeed everything was a mess in the living room and kitchen. Her TV was still face down on the ground, her sofa thrown backwards with her cushions all over the room, and there were glass fragments here and there from the many things she had thrown in order to divert Tom’s pursuit. She trod carefully, taking it all in, watching the memories flash before her eyes. It hurt remarkably less than she thought it would, but it was painful nonetheless. And Molly was one for distractions, so the only thing she could do now was the simplest of jobs; clean. 

Just as she managed to lift the sofa up and position it in its former, correct place, there was a knock at the door. When she looked up, the knocker was already inside, and Molly silently cursed herself for not closing the door. It was Sherlock, looking strangely sheepish in her little home, a strange look on his face as he examined it with his expertise eyes. Molly assumed he was reliving a nightmare of his own, the one from the night that he and John found her dying in the kitchen. She shivered, drawing her eyes downward to search for one of the cushions that belonged on the sofa.

“Is everything alright?” she asked absently, finding what she was looking for and tossing it in its rightful place, punching it with a bruised fist in order to puff it up again.  
“That’s a silly question, don’t you think?” Sherlock retorted, pushing the front door shut before allowing himself to enter the living room fully, his eyes watching Molly’s every move. She frowned, looking up.

“It is?”

“Yes. Why ask if everything is okay when it is perfectly clear that they aren’t?” he elaborated, and he sounded genuinely confused by her blindness. But she wasn’t blind. Of course nothing was okay and it wouldn’t be for a long, long time, but she also knew that there was no point in dwelling on the wrongness of the world when the right thing to do was to move on. And Molly was moving on, properly this time. 

“I’m not going to live in the past, Sherlock; I’ve been doing that my whole life. What happened has happened and it’s done. I’m going to get on with my life.” She gestured around the room. “And I’m starting with this place. So I’ll ask again; is everything alright?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “No.” He moved towards her a little too quickly for her liking. When he didn’t slow down Molly backed up until her back was against a wall, her eyes gazing up at Sherlock in dumb surprise. His eyes were sharper than she had ever seen them, clear with confidence in what he was doing. He stood so that his shoes were flush with her pumps, meaning that he was close enough to see the steady movement of his chest, the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, and the ever so slight shift of colour in his eyes as he stared at her. Three years ago, Molly would have melted at the knees if Sherlock had come this close to her. Now, however, she had an urge to challenge him, so she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, waiting for what he had to say.

“I need you to make me a promise.” he told her carefully. Her heart jumped a little with curiosity and surprise. What kind of promise was Molly worthy of making to Sherlock?

“I can try.” she told him carefully, her brows knitting together ever so slightly. His serious expression didn’t waver. 

“Promise that you’ll never stop being Molly Hooper.” he said, and the requested startled her enough that she broke out in a sheepish grin. 

“I don’t even know what that means.” Came her response, and Sherlock expressed a half-hearted eye roll. 

“It means that you should never stop being you. In other words, make sure that you never stop caring, never stop being brave, and most importantly, never stop being brilliant.” He bent down slightly so that they were at eye level, causing Molly’s breath to hitch with both the intensity of his stare and the next few words to fall from his mouth. “Don’t let what happened change who you are, because I’ll never forgive myself if you do.”

“I… I suppose that’s a fair request.” she stuttered with a small smile. Sherlock didn't say a word but collected Molly gently in his arms, tucking her head under his chin and rocking her slightly. Molly hadn't realised she'd been crying, so appreciated this gesture more than anything. She clung to him, sniffling quietly, smelling the sweet scent of his cologne as well as a slightly sour smell. He was so warm and strong, promising safely, and this was more intimate to her than a kiss, simply because she knew how big a step this was to him. She listened as he inhaled sharply before sighing, a motion of ridding all the stress from his lungs that had piled up over the endless weeks. Molly exhaled, too, and listened her grip on him. When he pulled back slightly, his arms still around her, she saw that his expression was almost blank, a strange mist over his eyes, and then he smiled before she could define what that look was. Sherlock stepped away, releasing her at last, and Molly was able to breathe once more. 

Sherlock gazed around the room with a quizzical eye, most likely labelling what he saw, until he turned back to Molly. He suddenly looked very young and gentle, his eyes warm. “Would you like some help?”

“I—” Molly looked around, fighting the need to feel dismayed by the mess, until she sighed in defeat. “Yes, that would be nice.” 

Sherlock grinned and swept away, his coat like a cape until he shrugged out of his and discarded it on the half complete sofa, scarf in tow. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, catching Molly’s eye, and she couldn’t help but grin at him. 

“Tea?” Sherlock asked. 

“Please, with two sugars.” Was Molly’s reply. 

***

After that, Molly hardly saw Sherlock again for a long time. He'd stayed with her and cleaned up her apartment with her, telling her stories along the way in order to distract her, and even stayed the night. He vanished the next day and wasn't seen again as he focussed all of his attention on the one man who was out to destroy him once and for all, the man who had tried to rip Molly away in order to succeed in his doings. And molly was okay with that. She knew that Sherlock would always be there if she needed him, but for now she was okay.

Of course, Moriarty didn't stay locked up for long; he was much to clever for that. However, he never went after Molly again, and instead focussed all of his attention on Sherlock until the day he died (properly). Many thought that he got bored of her and that she could be forgotten now that he'd played his game with her, and a few believed that he forgot about her entirely. Molly knew better. Moriarty never came for her again because he respected her and her way of standing up to him. She was easy, fragile and unimportant, but respected enough to spare her life. That was all Molly needed to know to get on with her life completely.

A lot of emotional agony was experienced over the next few months, ones that Molly wasn't one to think about. She had tried to help and love her friends, but there was truly nothing to be done. So for a while she went about her life alone, Greg occasionally coming to see her, sometimes Mrs Hudson, but nothing was truly the same again.

Molly Hooper never would heal from her ordeal, but no one was ever asking her to. Damage created layers, and each layer was a new floor of wisdom, strength and determination. Molly was heavily damaged but that didn’t make her any less than who she was; she still loved, still cared, she treasured those close to her. She would never love a man the same way she wished she could, though, but that didn’t mean she was to never move on. It just meant that when the right man did come along, and she knew he was he one, she would feel a new kind of love, one so strong and precious it would change her world entirely. That was just the way it worked; the more damaged you were, the stronger those precious emotions became.

One thing was for certain though. No matter how dire things got, no matter how hopeless life became, Molly Hooper would never be alone. People could think that she meant nothing, that no one ever noticed her because she wasn’t important. But that was the beauty of it; for someone so important, she was incredibly camouflaged. Even when it came to light that she was indeed still alive to the public, people forgot about her. She became invisible, and that was just fine. Molly was a weapon, a woman not to be underestimated. But it didn’t matter that no one noticed her because her makeshift family did, and always would.

After all, she was the one who mattered the most when it counted.


	9. Chapter 9

The tears finally rose to the surface when Molly locked eyes with the detective, but it wasn’t from her own fear. She was terrified for him and what her death would do to him, because whether she liked it or not, Moriarty was right; Sherlock was not a man who coped with guilt all too well. He lived by equal morals, liked to have every game even and fair. He was in Molly’s debt and always would be, so her death would shake up his way of seeing things. Guilt could break down even the strongest of men, and right now Molly was the key to Sherlock’s self-destruction. 

“Miss me?” Moriarty cooed, just like he had in the announcement of his return. Molly instinctively clawed at his arm around her throat, letting the tears fall as she tried to loosen the grip he had on her. She could barely see, the blur of her tears and the mistiness of terror almost blinding. She felt like she could taste her own heart in her mouth, and her stomach clenched like a fist so hard it made her want to cry out. She could feel her blood, thick and warm on her skin, alarming her horrifically. Red dotted her vision; red for anger, red for terror… red for the end. 

“Funnily, no, I didn’t.” Sherlock said slowly, his voice deadly but calm. Moriarty’s grip tightened ever so slightly, like the coil of a snake in the process of suffocating its prey. Molly gasped, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, and instead tried to focus entirely on Sherlock. She stared desperately at his face, his eyes, his movements, watching him because it was the only thing she knew was safe. Sherlock was safe. Molly tried to cling on to that mere belief, because right now it was the only thing she had left.

The gun pressed harder into her temple, and a sob broke through the block in her throat. Pain exploded in her head, and still she stared at Sherlock. He stared back, slightly closer now, but his companions hadn’t moved. They stood completely still, watching, their faces half hidden in shadows in the doorway. She could see that they were male, pale and very intense looking, and flashes of Sherlock’s ‘Homeless Network’ sprung to mind. That both comforted her and concerned her. 

“That hurts, Shirley.” Moriarty drawled, and Molly could practically feet his pout against her hair. “I thought it would be good for us to meet again, especially with a spice of drama.” He rocked Molly this way and that painfully, making her cry out with a brittle voice. Her nails fought into his arm, nails sharp and demanding for her release, but he hardly seemed to notice. Sherlock took another step, and Moriarty yanked her away. “Ah, ah, ah!”

“Let her go,” Sherlock said slowly, the venom in his tone thick and frightening, his crystal eyes flashing. 

“Hmm… how about no?” Moriarty cackled, hiding his face in her neck. Molly squirmed, his touch equivalent to spiders crawling up her arm. She felt his head jerk as he gestured to the strangers in the doorway. “Who are your friends?”

“None of your concern.” Sherlock told him, his voice dropping lower. “Let her go.”

The pressure of the gun on her temple intensified even more, and this time Molly let out loud scream, only to be shushed by the monster holding her. “Shh, shh, quiet now, Molls, you’ll draw unwanted attention.” He placed a cold kiss on her cheekbone, licking away a tear in the process.

“Please,” she begged in a whisper, the words escaping her before she could stop them. “Please…. Don’t—!”

 _“SHUT UP!”_ Moriarty howled, and the white shock of pain that hit her in the side of her head knocked her sideways. 

She heard the cry of her name before the ringing settled in her ears, loud and torturous. She was on the ground, the floor cool and damp beneath her palms, small rocks digging into her knees through her jeans. She couldn’t see through the delirium that was her fear and confusion, the beat in her head so intense she thought she could see the pulse of her own heart behind her eyes. Something warm trickled down the side of her face, over her cheek and finally dripping from her chin. She could smell it, salty like rust. 

She must have passed out for a few minutes. The closing of her eyes was all it took for her to wake up somewhere else, somewhere both warm and cold. She recognised the brown carpet, the cream walls coated in photos, the roaring of the fireplace. She knew the smell, sweet and mouth-watering because of the baking cookie smell drifting from the kitchen. Molly knew where she was, and she knew how old she was. She was a child again, trapped in a ten year old body. She could even feel the fresh fleeting of her young heart and the natural softness of her hair, a few shades darker back then. She felt young and alive, yet the loneliness was all too familiar.

 _“Mum, will you help me?”_ her little voice said. She was on the floor near the fire, the heat almost burning the side of her face as she stared at her mum in the chair. She had her notebook on the floor at her knees, open on a blank page, and a worksheet was beside her with math questions. But her mum didn’t respond. She just sat there, staring into space, the smell of cookies slowly turning to a smell of something burning. She would occasionally take a sip of the glass of red wine in her hand, but other than that, she looked like she wasn’t even conscious of the world, let alone her daughter. _“Mum?”_

_“Quiet, Molly.”_ Her mother said flatly, not looking at her. 

_“But I need your help.”_ Molly protested, the fire raging louder beside her, as if its temper was heating just like hers was. Her mother had been like this for weeks, and she was slowly getting worse. Molly would often catch her sobbing in her room, weeping, whispering her father’s name. She often tried to help but she was always shunned, and now she just got annoyed. Her father was dead, and he had been dead for six months. He wasn’t coming back. 

_“I said be quiet.”_ Her mother repeated, her tone shifting as well. Molly straightened her back and squared her shoulders, glaring hotly at her mother. The woman glared back, finally looking at her, and her eyes looked so empty it was like looking into black pits. 

_“But I need your_ help.” Molly growled, folding her arms. 

_“Molly.”_ Her mother snapped her name with a thick warning embedded into it. Weeks ago, the tone would have silenced Molly, but not now.

 _“Dad would help me.”_ She said, and the stiffness that tugged throughout her mother’s body told Molly that she’d crossed the line. But, being the brave little girl that she was, she no longer felt afraid or ashamed. What her mother was doing was wrong. Yes, she was allowed to grieve, yes, she was allowed to be sad, but she was not allowed to block out her own daughter. Molly needed her more than anyone, and right now she was being a terrible mother. 

_“Shut up,”_ her mother snarled, gripping the arms of the chair. Molly wasn’t one to relent. 

_“He’d help me with anything; colouring, reading, homework—”_

_“Have you gone deaf? Shut._ Up!” 

_“He always said that he’d be there to help me, as well as you, and right now I need your_ help!” 

It was then that Molly would never speak to her mother again. _“SHUT UP YOU LITTLE BITCH!”_ Molly watched as her Molly rose from the chair and stormed out of the room, running up the stairs before locking herself in her bedroom like a child. Molly sat there was a long time, tears in her eyes yet refusing to fall. What was the use in crying? No one cared anymore. Her father was dead, and he had taken her mother’s love with him. At ten years old, Molly was alone. 

Rising from the floor, little Molly padded calmly to the kitchen and opened the oven. The cookies had become a routine habit for her mother, a way of distracting herself, but she always burned them. So with care Molly pulled them out with oven gloves and placed them on the side, a dozen black circles that would later be tossed away. Then she returned to her living and packed her school work back into her bag, the fire continuing to blaze by her side.

An hour later, Molly had packed a large camping bag full of her clothes and one of her teddies. She was at the front door, staring at the handle, listening to her mother’s sobs. It was then that she knew she no longer mattered to the world, that she no longer counted. She could never ask anyone for help in fear of them shunning her. She could never love someone in fear of them turning their back on her. She thought that she would never be able to be happy again, and living under the same roof as her mother wasn’t going to help matters. 

So she left. Luckily, her aunt lived just fifteen minutes away from her home, and she was on her father’s side. She’d take care of Molly, and she did exactly that.

Molly came back to reality when the door on the passed closed with her exit. She was back in the warehouse, a body standing over her, and she no longer felt the warmth of a fire. She was back, and she was still alive. Keeping her eyes closed, she listened to the voice over her, speaking slowly with a bored tone. She felt her blood boil as his words rained down on her. 

“She never did know how to shut up, did she?” Moriarty was saying. “Blah, blah, blah, it was so _annoying_. Half the time she just sputters like a scared puppy! How many times have you felt the need to tell her to shut up?”

“I tell everyone to shut up when I need to think, but general ramblings don’t bother me,” a second voice said, cooler, smoother; Sherlock. “I’m afraid Molly’s chatter only annoys you.”

“Ah, yes, because you care about little Molls.” Moriarty said mockingly. “You actually _care_ about her feelings. How adorably boring.”

“I find it endearing.” Sherlock said simply. “Human error is sometimes comforting.”

“Oh? Sherlock, you have gone soft. You’re almost human!” 

It was quiet for a moment. Molly felt the cold roll in on her, hugging her, beckoning her to shiver and give her away. She could feel it cooling in her lungs, icy cold, but it helped her calm herself and think more clearly. She was in terrible pain, and certainly needed medical attention, but she needed to focus now. For once, Molly was able to shut up and think about what she was doing. She’d gone through so much that the fear became an afterthought, and that clarity was the new way of surviving. 

Everyone told her to shut up; her mother, her schools friends, the many people she loved. Perhaps it was actually time to obey them and use her silence against all the wrong they had done her. 

_Shut up, Molly, you don’t know anything!_

_Don’t make jokes, Molly._

_For God’s sake, Molly, do you ever know when to shut up?_

_No one cares, Molly!_

_SHUT UP YOU LITTLE BITCH!_

Her eyes snapped open, and she clenched her jaw. Her nails dug into the concrete ground, sharpening them. She caught sight of Moriarty’s leg just by her stomach, his legs parted over her, the gun held lazily in the direction of her face as he spoke to Sherlock. The hooded men still hadn’t moved behind Sherlock, but Molly knew they were watching her, waiting to help. She was about to give them that chance. Moriarty hadn’t noticed her, because no one ever did. Right now she didn’t matter to him, and that was just what she needed. 

If she knew anything, Moriarty wouldn’t take any notice of her for a few minutes. His fixation with Sherlock was his own downfall, and that gave her a chance. Slowly she moved, drawing her knee up with patient gradualness. She moved her arm so that it folded onto her stomach, a lash out from the gun. She waited, breathing steadily, calculating her moves. She had to be quick and she had to be silent.

Most importantly, she had to be brave. 

_“You’ll always be my brave baby girl,”_ her father’s voice whispered. _“always so brave and selfless. Never lose that, Molls, never.”_ Molly set her jaw. Her heart began to pound like a punching fist in her chest. Her blood began to surge violently in her veins. 

Moriarty was chuckling above her. “Molly may have counted, Sherlock, but she never really mattered.” 

Sherlock was quiet for a further moment before he smirked, the corner of his mouth turning up in mockery. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” he said, and then he looked at Molly.  
Now! Molly lashed up and snatched Moriarty’s wrist with the gun, yanking down towards her. He yelled out with surprise, toppling, and Molly brought up her feet right between his legs. He screamed as she pushed, launching him into the air and away from her, sending him rolling across the ground. The gun clattered away from his hand and Molly staggered to her feet, reaching for it, desperate to grab it tightly between her hands. 

The men in the hoods reached her first. They grabbed her on either side and dragged her towards the door, making her scream in protest. The gun, she needed the gun! She had to end what Moriarty started, she had to punish him for what he did to her. She had to hurt him! Yelling out through the pain and frustration of what was happening, Molly began to sob and beg, trying to pull free from the men holding onto her. They stank of the darker streets of London, and dammit were they strong!

“Molly!” she heard her name and then Sherlock was suddenly there, grasping her shoulder and shaking her, urging her to focus. “Molly, you don’t want to do that, that’s not what you want! You don’t want to hurt anyone!”

 _“I want to hurt him!”_ she shrieked, yanking against the men hanging onto her, and Sherlock grabbed her face between his hands. She found herself staring into his eyes, clear as glass, desperate. She could see her own reflection, terrified and bloody, wild with a want that was beyond her nature. She sagged, sobbing, the clenching in her gut agonising. She was shaking like a leaf, so afraid and angry and hurt, and it was a wonder how she hadn’t collapsed on the ground already. 

“No,” Sherlock whispered. “you don’t. That’s not who you are. You’re Molly Hooper, not a killer.” He kissed her forehead, his breath shuddering, and Molly finally broke down. “Get her out of here.” Sherlock said sternly, releasing Molly’s face and turning away. One of the men bent down and lifted her into their arms, carrying her like she weighed nothing more than a feather. She didn’t care anymore. 

She listened to the groaning of Moriarty, pained and momentarily broken. She wanted to take comfort in that, but Sherlock was right; Molly could never enjoy someone else’s pain, no matter who they were or what they’d done. That just wasn’t her. She was brave, but like her father had once told her, she was also very selfless. She’d do anything for those she loved, but she would never hurt anyone for her own personal gain. 

As the man carrying her began to jog away from the scene, where violent punching sounds began to take place followed by deep grunts of pain, Molly closed her eyes and continued to cry. The man running alongside them was panting, struggling to keep up, but he managed to gasp out some words that made Molly stop crying. 

“That… was brilliant… Miss.” 

She opened her eyes, and allowed herself to smile a little.


End file.
